WAKING with a hangover so intense that some sort of silver liquid matter is dribbling from my ears, I reflect upon meeting President Trump during his visit to the UK.

I was invited to meet Mr Trump in my capacity as head of the church, so I suggested that we might play a round of golf at a course near Windsor. I informed them that it was a pastime with which I was unfamiliar, and whose rudiments he could teach me.

We duly met up on the opening tee, with cameras present for the photo opportunity. With an air of unworldly piety, I clasped my hands around the handle of the club as Mr Trump advised me on stance, grip, swing and so forth. I pulled the club right back, swung, missed the ball entirely and caught the president squarely in the face.

Nose bloodied, Mr Trump set me up again. I swu

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