The Archbishop of Canterbury on… Donald Trump's dignified World Cup appearance

WAKING up with a hangover so intense that jets of purple liquid spray from my eyeballs, I take a hydration break with several gallons of spring water to bring myself back to baseline.

In my irritable state, I ring the bell to call my useless new assistant. With a timid rap at the door, he comes quivering into my hallowed chambers.

‘You rang, Archbishop?’ mumbles former prime minister Keir Starmer with his trademark lack of charisma.

‘You’re sacked, Starmer. You’ve proven yourself to be less competent than Liz Truss, who at least reordered my filing cabinet. What have you achieved, besides bleating on about meaningless bollocks like security, prosperity and respect?’

‘Well, I can say I inherited a church that was near-bankrupt…’

‘No it fucking wasn’t!’

‘I managed to rid it of antisemitism…’

‘Anything else?’

‘I’ve achieved all I set out to achieve in this post.’

‘Precisely! Worse than fuck all!’

With that, I propel him onto the pavement with a powerful punt up the posterior. Afterwards, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Donald Trump forced himself amongst the Spanish football team as they lifted the World Cup.

Fucking hell, you oblivious tangerine scrotal sack of gurning, grifting, fascist fucking awfulness, have you no fucking vestige of modesty, dignity or fucking shame? You practically had to be manhandled out of the picture like a fucking streaker or something! A fucking policeman should have rugby-tackled you and put their helmet over your face! You are without doubt or debate, the absolute cunt to end all cunts!

In an interview, new education secretary Lucy Powell described her party, Labour, as ‘the party of working people’.

Yeah, you sneaky fucking right-winger in the wrong party, we fucking see what you’re doing there! Labour is, or rather fucking was, the party of the working CLASSES, not working people! I’m a fucking working person. Well, a few fucking mornings a week – worship then pub by midday – but given the fucking silver spoon shoved up my arse at birth, you’d not describe me as fucking working class! But no, you don’t want Labour to set up as opposition to the fucking ruling, billionaire, corporate, capital class! You want it to be Labour for working people versus immigrants, scroungers, welfare dependants! This ‘new’ Labour is just gonna be a fucking slightly differently spectacled continuation of the Starmer version, isn’t it?

New defence minister Wes Streeting addressed an audience of arms manufacturers in Farnborough. He has committed £298bn over the next four years, including an additional £15bn on top of last year’s spending review settlement.

Well, that got me punching the fucking air! At last, someone is thinking of the fucking arms manufacturers! I mean, like Lucy Powell says, Labour’s the party of working people. And let’s face it, no one’s working harder than fucking arms manufacturers. They’re burning the midnight oil to ensure that nation states are provoked into defence expenditure at the expense of the world’s neediest! Those schools and hospitals won’t bomb themselves without the fucking arms manufacturers, will they? You utterly loathsome, deeply unwanted, ham-faced slab of pure cunt!

Finally, Andrew Tate was arrested, along with brother Tristan, while wearing a purple shirt and half-mast slacks. On X, he complained about being held in a high-security institution with no contact with the outside world.

Haha, sure, no contact except access to the fucking internet and a Twitter account with about a billion idiot fucking followers! Eat your fucking heart out, Robinson Crusoe! You know what, you’re fucking finished, thank God! Not just because you’re going to be sent down a deep, dank fucking prison hole, hopefully, but because your dickhead manosphere followers will be wondering what that risibly weird fucking outfit was! You might as well have been wearing a fucking bra, you ever-confused prick!

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You can't park there, mate, you're blocking me in, with Jude Bellingham

HELLO England fans. Jude Bellingham here. Marauding midfielder and national hero. Let me tell you straight off, no one was as gutted as me when we bollocksed things up against the Argies. 

But after a week to reflect and decompress, I thought I’d share a few thoughts from our World Cup campaign. An insider’s view of what it was really like. Might be interesting.

I think the most shocking thing that happened in America and Mexico was… hang on. Bear with me a sec. Oi! Oi you! You can’t park there, pal. I said ’you can’t park there’. Read the sign. Read it. What does it say? 

Yeah. ‘This lock-up garage is in use 24 hours a day. Do not block access or you will be towed.’ Simple, innit? Listen mate, I need to get in there at all times. Yes, even now. I’ve got my Nissan Micra in there, so you’ll block me in. I need to go out in a minute to collect my Mum from her keep-fit class. 

Am I who? What? Am I Jude Bellingham? Yeah, I’m Jude Bellingham, of Real Madrid and England. Yeah, I did score all those goals at the World Cup. You’re welcome. What do I drive a Micra for with all my money?  Keep your nose out, pal. I just like how it handles and I’m investing my money in property, if you must know. 

Listen, this doesn’t change the fact you’re blocking my lock-up with your white van. I don’t care if you’re only dropping a few bits off. They all say that. Get it shifted. No, I’m not taking a selfie. Not till you move your van. Tell all your mates I’m a prick in real life, then. See if I care. 

The Argentina game? Not that again. Yeah, I agree, we were shit after we scored. You could have done better then? The state of you. Belly hanging over your cargo shorts. What are you, 50? 55? You should be embarrassed mate. 

I bet you’ve got a shirt with my name on the back, you sad bastard. Pathetic were we? Tell you what, why don’t you take it up with Thomas Tuchel, the great big German prick. Ha. You like that do you? Finally something agree on. Now then, how’s about you be a good fella and move that van.

‘Course I’ll sign your copy of The Sun. Diamond mate. Thanks a lot. You take care now. Where was I? Oh yeah, the World Cup. Time’s creeping on, so let’s just say: sorry we lost, I did my best, let’s add four more years of hurt and leave it at that, yeah? My Mum hates it when I’m late.