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WHEN you arrive you’re sure to receive a warm welcome, or the threat of brutal violence – the local accent is so thick it’s impossible to tell. Still, it helps justify the local souvenir t-shirt, ‘It’s Never Dull in Hull’. Although that is a lie.

He asked me if I ‘do all the sex positions’. I’ve met forward blokes who like trying to get a reaction, but Martin didn’t seem to be joking.

It’s better to have loved and lost than have never been a billionaire oligarch with a massive yacht at all.

Way to say ‘fuck you’ to any poor sex trafficking victim who had the misfortunate to be introduced to her favourite fucking son! 

‘He fancies me,’ I told Big Dog. ‘All the Tories fancy you,’ he said. ‘Raab’s asked for your phone number.’ ‘No, Starmer,’ I said and his eyes went all tiny.

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?