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You learn the true meaning of Christmas this week, and it’s banging Lindsay Lohan in a cottage.

WAKING with a hangover that caused me to accidentally excrete one of my kidneys, I reflect on yesterday’s events pertaining to ‘follow-up’ emails from providers of goods and services.

REBOOT? Jackboot, more like. Another stamp of Starmer’s Stalinist boot on the heart of this once-great nation.

CHRISTMAS approaches like a male orgasm – for all the fuss, essentially always the same and closely followed by depression.

‘All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth,’ as Liam Gallagher sang in 2002 after that fateful Munich hotel brawl.

WAKING up with a hangover the size of the French national debt, I reflect on the events of last Sunday, when my faith helped me enormously in my hour of need in a pub.

NEVER fancied Thailand. Too hot, scary wildlife that can kill you with a single poisonous bite, and most of the women are packing cocks. 

THE father of English printing, William Caxton brought the first printing press to our shores and was instrumental in coining the phrase ‘that f**king printer’s f**king broken again’.

You’ve staked out a ring, you’ve got baying crowds, an illegal bookie is taking cash bets. But these snowballs just won’t fight.

WAKING up with a hangover so malignant it has caused me to grow a third testicle, I switch on the wireless and learn that John Prescott has died.