Premium

SINGERS, yes plenty of them. Actors? The usual surfeit. But there was not one single ordinary working-class Boris supporter at the Concert for Ukraine.

Sadly Chester is perilously close to Wales, making the xenophobic English residents seethe with bitter fury.

She got quite red in the face and broke out into a visible sweat, which I assumed was the oysters working their magic. It turned out they were, but not as I’d intended.

A friend comes to you with a proposition – smell their finger? Don’t rush in, and consider your options.

Shit my cassock, how thick, lumpen and out of ideas about how to exist would you have to be to want to buy an album by that poxy, rat-faced fuckwit Liam Gallagher?

MOURN Britannia, for she is no more. The colossus which once bestrode the globe has been murdered, her country dead, its natives doomed. The murder weapon? Rishi Sunak’s budget.

Neil seems absolutely lovely, charming, funny and handsome. But, given that I’m heterosexual and said so on the form, that’s by the by. Was no woman available? Would none of them date me?

Make an effort to really impress your guests, even if they are slavering human dustbins who drink you dry then bitch about you behind your back.

Stoke-on-Trent is a city made of six towns, all of which are shit individually before they form together to be shit collectively, like a shit Voltron.

This week you decide to cut out the middleman, put glasses, a moustache and a little hat on your cock, and set that as your Tinder profile picture.