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Remember Paul the psychic octopus? He was executed after predicting the time of Terry Wogan’s death to the minute.

WAKING fully robed in my bathtub, my cassock covered in faeces, urine and blood, I realise that yesterday’s sherry reception for the Little Sisters of the Poor got a little out of hand.

HE’S not at his best in the morning. Takes him a while to warm up. Which is one explanation why his interview went so very fucking badly.

VEGANISM’S hot right now, so let’s celebrate healthy, plant-based diets! It’s not like vegans are holier-than-thou twats who deserve their soy protein rammed up their arses, is it?

The local delicacy is Henderson’s Relish, which the locals put on everything from cheese on toast to fish and chips. Try not to say it’s a shit version of Worcestershire sauce. Just think it.

CAN Highgate resident Francesca, tired of dating men who open with what school they went to, connect with Nathan from the tiny, backward hamlet of Manchester?

If you ever see a little black bag hanging from a tree do not pick it. That fruit is not of the fruitbowl, my friend.

WAKING at four in the morning in a puddle of my own vomit following a late and convivial evening with theologian friends, I pick up my battered mitre.

‘Angela Rayner?’ he said. ‘Definitely. Red hair, red politics, all the other red flags? I wouldn’t turn that down. Incendiary in bed. Christ.’

DEAR Elon Musk. You are a billionaire. I am but a humble bankrupt patriot. But you can save me, Britain and Western civilisation by letting me back on Twitter.