By Dr Helen Archer, professional catastrophist
OUR national institutions have fallen one by one, and this weekend we lost the last. No Bond, no Who, no-one in Downing Street and no Strictly presenters. It’s over.
What is there left? A threadbare, tatty King Charles and his sulky heir. A lesser Julia Donaldson adaptation for Christmas Day. A woman Archbishop of Canterbury. We cannot imagine they will defend us.
Can it really be just five short years since we had the dream team standing tall for Britain? Daniel Craig on the cusp of No Time To Die. Boris Johnson manfully wrestling Brexit through Parliament. The Queen at the helm. Okay, Doctor Who was a woman but still.
Where is that empire of transnational entertainment franchises now? Flat f**ked. And nothing has sprung up to replace them. So desperate we’re remaking Harry Potter and Tom Hiddleston’s back on telly. Even his ex has switched to dating American.
Ed Sheeran’s over, much as he doesn’t know it. Adele slumbers, awaiting a new Albion. Phil and Holly are toppled. Tess and Claudia have resigned in disgrace after being rejected sexually by Thomas Skinner. Britain is bereft of heroes.
We stand defenceless. Even Paddington in Peru was shit. But it can all be turned around. We just need to decide on the right man.
That’s right: I’m saying one man, one singular British man, should be the new prime minister, new James Bond, new Doctor Who, new King, new Strictly presenter and quite possibly could do a job on MasterChef. We just need to decide who.
I nominate Richard Osman. He’s good and tall and hasn’t put a foot wrong so far.