The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Boris Johnson crapping out an exclusive turd

WAKING in Hyde Park on a scorching summer afternoon, I realise I am surrounded by not my customary empty rum bottles alone but also my discarded mitre and cassock. 

Thoroughly sunburnt, clad only in boots and a thong. I gather my raiments and return to Lambeth where I am made aware that pictures taken as I slept have been shared widely on social media, to much merriment.

Consequently Sunday’s service, normally a sparsely attended affair, is packed to the rafters with the young and curious. As I conduct the service I feel my newfound flock’s enthusiasm palling.

‘Oh, what the hell,’ I declare, remove my cassock and displaying my red-raw naked body, with only the line of my thong white, to the congregation. A mighty cheer goes up and the rest of the service goes off with a swing.

Returning to my chambers I have my clerk instruct vicarages across England to follow my example to boost attendance, before I read that Nadine Dorries is furious that a working-class Liverpool woman like herself has been denied a peerage.

Jumpstart my tits by wiring them to Megatron, I know the honours system is so fucked it’s a embarrassment to be in receipt of one nowadays but what in the holy name of Christ’s bollocks makes you think an ignorant, malignant, risible, vain, slurring, pathologically shameless, twat-infatuated, wrong-as-fuck spacewaster like you deserves a place in the fucking House of Lords? Working-class? To be working-class you actually have to do some work, and you’ve done fuck all of that! Yeah, the people of Liverpool are right behind you, that’s why they don’t vote Tory! That’s why they’ve stopped buying The Sun! Because they’re disgusted with the way ‘our Nadine’ has been treated! Stupid fucking twat!

A band’s tour programme reads: ‘Not many bands in music history have started their career with seven albums of such high quality. Doing all that while evolving and expanding the sound makes it even more impressive. We might even have to start talking in terms of The Beatles.’ The group in question is the Arctic Monkeys.

The advantage of being an Archbishop and working in an Abbey and shit is that when I read something like this I’ve got immediate access to a fucking aisle to roll in! Arctic Monkeys? The fucking Beatles? We’re not even talking The Monkees! Generic, tediously hairy, crashing guitar bores if ever I heard them! Running the full fucking gamut of rock shittiness from Shit’s End to Shit O’ Groats! The Arctic Monkeys? The Arctic Cunteys more like!

The Daily Mail, which described the privileges committee’s inquiry which found Boris Johnson had repeatedly misled parliament as ‘vindictive’ and ‘spiteful’, has reportedly hired Boris Johnson as a columnist.

Really? Good luck trying to get that lump of greedy, lazy, unkempt, psychopathic scum to write the fucking thing! Requires more physical effort than a staged ten-yard jog around a fucking hedge for TV cameras! And good luck trying to get anyone whose brain isn’t a boiling, misfiring cake of privileged fury to read it! Kids. If your grandparents are still reading the fucking Daily Mail – sitting in their fucking conservatories in their fucking pullovers reading the fucking Daily Mail – feel free to batter them with their own garden gnomes, then get power of attorney and have the bastards sectioned! That rag is a cancer on the fucking country!

Finally, it seems former Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi has died at the age of 86.

Fifty fucking years too late – pity there’s no God, as the Pope said to me on a Zoom chat – but still, fucking brilliant! I shit on your grave, Berlusconi! I charter a helicopter and shit on your grave from a great fucking height! There’s a three-berth cradle in the hottest depths of Hell, surrounded by boiling rivers of fire, and Trump and Johnson’ll be joining you there soon enough. But you’re the first to rot in it, you festering pillar of world-worsening wank!

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These crazed ideologues will not stop until Boris has been tarred, feathered, blinded and neutered

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who believes democracy has failed and it’s time to move on

WILL they not stop? Is no humilation enough until Boris is a tramp on the streets going through the bins for supper? 

Today’s privileges committee report is just the final kick to the ribs from the jackbooted guards who’ve spent months working him over, demanding a confession. 

First they took his dignity, making him apologise for parties which were work events, did not take place, should have been legal anyway and everyone was doing the same. Need I say cake? In a room? 

Then they took his job. The role he was born to. The greatest prime minister of this or any other era, defenestrated and jeered out of Downing Street, smeared in human dung. 

And now they’ve taken his very livelihood. A kangaroo court of methamphetamine-crazed vultures, nudists and old-school Soviets tortured him, tattooed ‘arsehole’ on his forehead, forced a live squirrel between his buttocks and beat his tits with a wooden ruler. 

On Monday, the Commons will vote. They will vote on whether Boris Johnson should be exiled to an uninhabited Atlantic islet or whether he is to be flayed alive, rolled in salt, set on fire and dismembered by wild, irradiated dogs. And I fear they’ll vote for the latter. 

Their vindictive vengeance is driven by their own inadequacy, the inescapable knowledge that none of them could handle a pandemic with Johnson’s grace, aplomb and savoir faire. They will castrate him, blind him and cut out his tongue. 

Why? Not Partygate, which never existed except in the deranged minds of the Westminster bubble. No, this is all retribution for a single crime: Brexit. 

Why else? Why else would Boris be decapitated, live on The One Show, while Alex Scott catches his head in a little basket? Because he refuses to recant his foundational belief. 

Boris, like Jesus, suffers for us. For the 52 per cent. For those who dared to dream. He is the Brexit martyr that they will never, ever break. 

Do what you like to Boris. Turn him inside out. Extinguish his line. Fire him into the sun. Put a firework up his cock if you must. He’ll still be Britain’s hero.