Die Hard is not a Christmas movie. There. I’ve said it. And I don’t care how many well-read, supposedly celluloid-savvy individuals tell me otherwise, it just isn’t.

As it transpires, President-elect Trump’s call to put ‘America first’ and cease its foreign adventures is nothing new and has a well-established pedigree in US history.

So sang the enigmatic and greatly undervalued singer-songwriter, Mark Hollis, before his premature, Beatles-inspired, demise at the age of only sixty-four. I remain confident, however, that he would’ve had an insightful opinion or two wrt today’s assisted-death discussion.

Admittedly not quite QAnon but, at the risk sounding like a conspiracy theorist, what exactly is Project 2025, a document that has been referred to as ‘a second American revolution’ and why is it being featured in the US news more and more?

No, not another of Rachel Reeves’s pre-budget fiscal black holes but the number of people now on Earth, and it’s set to increase further still, at a staggeringly fast rate.

Okay, so following last night’s final Tory MP’s electoral vote, the party has confirmed the two candidates to be submitted to its 120,000 membership are Honest Bobby, a man with more faces than Jim Carrey and KemiKaze, a woman so angry she picks fights with her own reflection.

It’s hard to say the honeymoon is over as it never really got underway. Mind, a rocky-start isn’t necessarily a sign of a weak government. Looking back through recent history Tony Blair stumbled with a donations row involving Bernie Ecclestone and Margaret Thatcher’s early period in office was characterised by infighting and widespread confusion.

In an ironic twist to Blair’s upbeat and positive arrival in office, Sir Keir’s signature tune appears to be ‘things can only get worser!’ and his post-election speeches have started to cast dark shadows over potential plans and ambitions.

T’other day I was round at a pal’s for an end-of-summer BBQ and the fun and festivities were continually interrupted by a great cacophony of squawking and shrieking from the surrounding trees, the noise of the resident ring-necked parakeets.

If, like many, you’re suffering from withdrawal symptoms of Olympian proportions, fear not as I am here to bring great news: I hereby formally claim, for King & country, that the modern Olympics are all ours, they’re British, and I assuredly place the Union Jack in the firm rump of all competing athletes.