Secretly I'm a bit of a nerd. So I've hit Tokyo with an anime want-list like you wouldn’t believe

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, the Ultraman of prime ministers 

YOU’D never guess based on my confident, cool exterior, but secretly I’m a little bit nerdy. Specifically an otaku who loves anything anime who just landed in Tokyo. 

The cover is I’m here for the G7. Actually I’m here for a Pochita plushie, armfuls of Master-Grade Gunpla, the original 1980 Japanese-language Virus on Laserdisc, One-Piece underwear, Genshin Impact Nandroids and a life-size Totoro.

I’m pumping yen into a gachapon when the phone goes. ‘Konnichiwa?’ I answer. It’s Hunt. ‘Did you say something about tampons and beer?’ he asks.

‘Sorry?’ I say, gasping as a rare Kamen Rider rolls out. ‘Tampons and beer,’ Hunt insists. ‘You told people Britain was better off after Brexit because of cheap tampons and beer.’

‘Rings a bell,’ I admit, heading down to Mandarake where I’ve heard there are fifth-generation Naroto ironing covers in, distracted by the odd feeling I’m being watched. ‘They are cheap, aren’t they?’

‘No,’ Hunt replies. ‘Tampon and beer manfacturers alike kept the price the same and kept the profits. Also, did you say something about unlimited immigration in perpetuity? Suella’s smashing mirrors.’

But I hang up. Because I’ve got that feeling again. An shadowy figure, face hidden, just dodged behind a pillar. I thought it was merely a life-size Yu-Gi-Oh until it moved.

Nothing. Turning, I carry on browsing the Shin Godzilla waifus when I feel it again. A sensation of pure, destructive evil. An uncomprehending force that kills monarchs and withers nations.

Grabbing an authentic Bleach katana, I whirl around, ready to confront this bobbleheaded death touch yōkai and slay it where it stands. My banzai cry dies on my lips.

‘I was in the neighbourhood and thought we could have a word about future taxation policy vis-à-vis growth,’ says Liz Truss.

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How to look incredible in your 50s, 60, 70s, 80s and when you're dead, by Jennifer Lopez

STILL smoking hot at 53, Jennifer Lopez explains how she’ll remain a Hollywood miracle past being octogenarian and from beyond the grave: 

If you’re not fuckable in this town you’re not alive. In my 50s, very much my current decade, I’m having my menopause through a surrogate and keeping my glow with a punishing workout schedule, ludicrous diet, team of make-up artists, flawless genetics and access to only the finest clothing and jewellery. And I’ve still ended up married to a narky bloke who slams car doors.

By my 60s I will be technically unemployable due to slight signs of aging, so I plan to go in on cosmetic surgery damned hard. By 2033 global warming will be out of control, the seas will be rising and you’ll be saying ‘Is that J-Lo? Maybe? Whoever she is, she has magnificent tits.’

Only Jane Fonda made it to her 70s with her dignity intact. We were in a film together, I hate her. As soon as I hit 70, I’m going to hit every premiere in town with a decrepit woman in her 90s, ideally from Stirling, cackling her way down red carpets with a stick while I glide youthfully beside her. Also I’ll release a sex tape.

My 80s? De Niro’s 80 this year and he’s just had another kid. For women it’s different. At this point I’ll turn to the unconventional and attempt to sell my soul to the devil. In a basement formerly owned by the legendary Anton LaVey I’ll practice human sacrifice and bathe in the blood of lambs. That should get me another three Oscars and a chart hit.

And after my sad demise in Ben’s arms, while he’s probably still starring in action movies? I’ll continue to attend the Met Gala. Whether reanimated or just serenely deceased in Versace and a wheelbarrow, I’ll be a role model and icon for the billions of other dead people out there. And I’ll release a new fragrance, Le Petite Mort by Jennifer Lopez, after I’ve been dead six months.