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WAKING in my own bed, I am startled to discover I lie beside a slumbering horse.

AS A millennial, I don’t understand things the older generation are into like home ownership, Morrissey and penetrative sex. Today I’m trying to ‘send a letter’.

SERIOUSLY worried I’d been too successful out there, Sir Keir. They were clapping every other sentence of my big speech. Then I remembered: they’re nutters.

LONG-DISTANCE relationship? You can’t have sex if you’re not in the same place. Shag someone local.

No article about Brighton would be complete without mentioning that it has a pier you can walk onto, piss away the best part of 30 quid with nothing to show for it, then walk off again.

The difference between Ed Sheeran and an Ed Sheeran tribute act is negligible.

I AWAKE on my canal break in the Norfolk Broads atop a sunken narrowboat, a litre bottle of overproof rum by my side and effluent pouring into my mouth from a rusty pipe.

MEGASTAR Rihanna is performing at the Superbowl simply because everyone else has and she didn’t want to be left out. What else was she peer-pressured into?

THIS is the mole talking, Sir Keir. You know, your agent inside the Tories. Liz. Liz Truss. Anyway, stage one complete: pound devalued, economy ruined, job done.

The north of England’s biggest city is extremely up itself these days. Having left its industrial past far behind, it’s acting like it was always smart bars and never rough as f**k.