The Archbishop of Canterbury on… Blair bumsucking Qatar and poor victimised racists

WAKING with a start in unfamiliar surroundings, I realise that I am actually in my own bed. A wheelbarrow at the bedside affords some clue as to how I was transported here. 

It had been an excellent day’s filming for the Christmas edition of Songs Of Praise but I have been advised it will be preceded by the warning ‘This programme contains frequent foul language and allusions to acts of bestiality by Our Lord Jesus Christ’. It will now be broadcast in the prime slot of 2.15am, Boxing Day morning. 

I rise, take breakfast and catch up on the periodicals. Former prime minister Tony Blair feels it is ‘not sensible’ to ‘disrespect Qatar, which is a big investor in the UK. He says he visits the country frequently.

Christ’s arsehole on a fucking skewer, is there any fucking regime on this fucking planet so odious you wouldn’t shill for them? With each passing year, as your hair gets stupider, you get cuntier! ‘Sensible’ my mottled arse. It’s money über alles with you, isn’t it? Oh and you don’t make ‘rare’ interventions, you’re doing it all the fucking time!

Lady Hussey has resigned as a royal aide following remarks she made to a black charity leader at a Palace event. The right-wing press have rallied to her defence; Allison Pearson described her stepping down as a ‘tragedy’, while in the Spectator it was opined that she could not be prejudiced, as she had been married to a man with one leg.

A ‘tragedy’? Yeah, let’s not waste words like that on Hillsborough – old white racists called out for racism, there’s your fucking tragedy right there. It doesn’t fucking matter what unusual number of legs Lady Hussey’s husband had, one, three, eight, she’s still out of order. How would Charles have felt if someone had come up, started touching his fucking hair, asked where he was ‘really’ from and not given up until he ‘admitted’ he was basically Greek with a bit of German thrown in?

At PMQs this week, Rishi Sunak was taken to task by Keir Starmer for allowing private schools like Winchester, attended by Sunak, to receive taxpayer’s money. Sunak retorted that to attack Winchester’s tax privileges was ‘an assault on aspiration’.

Joseph’s scrotum torn off in a carpenting accident, what is it with you far-right, mad-eyed pricks and ‘aspiration’? I have come across a great many people who would describe themselves as ‘aspirational’. And they are all twats. All they’re aspiring to is acquiring as much fucking money as possible, giant 200-foot piles of cash they can sit atop like fucking golden goblins, shitting and pissing on the rest of us! We shouldn’t just be fucking taxing them, we should be killing and eating them!

Finally, Morrissey has spoken out on the eve of the release of his new album Bonfire Of Teenagers. He has complained that we are living in a ‘Mary Whitehouse culture’ far too quick to take offence and that ‘diversity is the new conformity’.

There’s the kind of world you live in – one in which everyone says, ‘Yes, Morrissey’, ‘That’s right, Morrissey’, and ‘No, that’s not complete bollocks, Morrissey’. And there’s the world the rest of us live in. Diversity is the new conformity? I know you have some weird fucking hankering for it to be 1963 in Salford where the only black people you see are in comics with fucking bones through their noses, but tough fucking titty! All I can say is if the modern world embitters ageing fucking scumbags like you, it must be doing something right!

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'Took Starmer down a peg yesterday,' I tell my wife. 'Oh my God. He is proud of that. What is wrong with you?'

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

THE papers say it was my best PMQs yet. I arrive home and the door’s locked. ‘No prime ministers of poor countries,’ my wife says on the intercom. 

She’s such a joker. It’s just that, coming from very different backgrounds, her jokes tend to have a harder edge than mine and verge on cruelty. ‘Akshata?’ I said. ‘Oh alright come on up,’ she said. ‘But no work talk.’

I’m not currently allowed in the big kitchen or to use her personal chef, because she said if I want to work for a bloody living I have to live like it. But I dial up some Deliveroo and join her in the anteroom.

‘Gave Starmer a real hiding,’ I told her, not unreasonably pleased with myself. ‘He may have been a QC, but he tied himself in knots on private schools.’

‘Oh my God, you’re serious?’ she said. ‘He’s serious. You made the puffy-faced solicitor trip over his words a little and you are proud. What is wrong with you? What did I marry?’

‘But -’ I said, wrongly, because she hadn’t finished. ‘Bad enough you’re an MP. Bad enough you’re chief money-launderer for Johnson. Now you’re prime minister and having silly little arguments like a neighbour on Coronation Street. I am so ashamed.’

I draw myself up to my full height. ‘Now Akshata,’ I say, but she still hasn’t finished. ‘You did do the favour for my father? On China? You are some use, surely.’

‘Yes,’ I say, having lost my train of thought a little. ‘You said you’d watched my speech? I told the Lord Mayor’s Banquet that the golden era of UK-Chinese relations was over.’

‘It was on in the background,’ she said. ‘I hate those Mayor things. Nothing sadder than cheap opulence. And you said the golden era of UK-India relations was just beginning?’

‘I didn’t quite get there,’ I admitted. ‘You have to know your audience.’ ‘And I have to know my idiot,’ she replied. ‘Wonderful. Now I have to call Daddy and say you let him down.

‘By the way your Deliveroo is here. Get a job with them, why don’t you?’