'Energy, housing, defence, is there anything I can't do?' laughs Grant Shapps. The room falls silent

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s time-serving prime minister

‘JACK of all trades, master of all trades, that’s me!’ chortles Grant, on his appointment to yet another Cabinet post. I don’t correct his mistake. 

In truth, I only consider Shapps a safe pair of hands because he can be relied on to do nothing. Whether he’s in a job six days or six months, all he’ll do is schmooze billionaires to set up his post-MP consultancies. 

That’s venality you can trust. Not like Tugendhat or Mordaunt. They’re each very popular with the armed forces in their own ways – I’m told the top brass regularly have a tugendhat to photos of Mordaunt – which is the last thing I bloody need. 

Six months of competency is enough for a tilt at being leader in this party. I can’t risk it, so it had to be Shapps. But I’m not sure he fully understands my reasoning. 

‘It’s not easy being a renaissance man, Rishi,’ he says, expansively, feet on my desk. ‘Watching other people struggle with tasks, knowing you could pick them up and complete them perfectly at the first time of asking.

‘How many different roles have I excelled in so far? Housing, energy, transport, business, international development, and not forgetting home secretary. And now defence. Look up polymath in the dictionary and there’s a picture of me.’ 

‘Dictionaries aren’t illustrated,’ I say, evenly, ‘and weren’t you only home secretary for six days?’ ‘Six glorious days,’ he replies, ‘that still burn bright in the nation’s memory.’ 

‘Anyway,’ he concludes, ‘can’t hang about. A new brief to master. Not that it’ll take me long. If we win Ukraine thanks to my ideas, can you make sure I get credit?’ 

With that, Britain’s most deluded man leaves my office. It must be wonderful being him. 

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Bobbing for apples with my dick, baby – how I'll sex up your village's fruit and vegetable show, by The Weeknd

A TROUBLED summer for Abel Tesfaye, the musical megastar known as The Weeknd, has seen his much-hyped HBO show The Idol cancelled. 

But the Blinding Lights singer has no plans to change his ways and will be closing summer by raunching up one Cheshire village’s fruit and veg show to a frankly unacceptable degree. He explains:

Okay, The Idol wasn’t so hot. I said pussy a lot, Lily-Rose Depp got naked, there was a ten-minute sex scene so its failure is beyond anyone’s understanding.

But the pent-up sexual energy I’d banked for season two needs to go somewhere, so here’s how I plan to ejaculate it all over your village’s fruit and veg show. Metaphorically. But also literally.

Riding that giant marrow

In music videos, the formula is mansion – supercar – bad bitches. I’m fixing to roll that out to the show, but instead of supercars my girls will be writhing on an enormous marrow. These models are gonna put the ‘cum’ in ‘Mafton-cum-Chorlton’s Village Fete’. I’ll be there, silk shirt unbuttoned, riding a huge pumpkin like I’m impregnating that sucker.

Doing body shots of parsnip wine

Normally I only mess with Cristal, but the village shop’s only open Tuesdays and Fridays from 11am-3pm. The only liquor up in this motherfucker is Alan from the parish council’s parsnip wine. After I’ve judged the salad cucumber contest using my cock as a yardstick, we’ll kick this party into the sky. Body shots off pensioners while a banjo band plays on the back of a flatbed truck? That’s showbusiness at its most depraved and ugliest.

Bobbing for apples with my dick, baby

20p a go to bob for apples? I’ve got something golden and delicious right here. I drop $20,000 in petty cash and spend the next two hours thrusting into that tempting tub, trying to will my member into seizing an apple and holding it proudly aloft. It’s the degeneracy of the music business and the moral vacuum of Hollywood distilled into one man thrusting. Pushing sexual boundaries while funding allotment fencing.

Rubbing jam all over my bad self

If that fails to ignite a fire of lust in this marquee on a primary school’s sports field, then I’ll sleaze on over to the produce section, name myself guest judge, and rub preserve after curd after piccalilli over my naked torso. Gooseberry, plum, damson I don’t give a fuck. Then I’ll demand the vicar lick the samples from my flexing six-pack before scoring each out of ten based on appearance, taste and texture.

Sticking flowers up my ass

And if all that fails to get pulses racing, I’ll take the winner of Best Bouquet and stick it up my ass like I’m a human vase. Because I’m edgy like that.