The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Boris Johnson keeping sodding going

AWAKING after a late evening with a delegation of Belgian Trappist monks, experts in brewing, I realise the bed I repose in is for once my own and summon a junior cleric. 

I instruct him on my weeks itinerary, pass him some paperwork to process, and ask him the further favour of sawing off my throbbing head to end this hangover. As he departs in search of a toolbox, I switch on the radio to learn that Boris Johnson has resolved to ‘keep going’ despite Conservative losses in two by-elections.

Kiss the fossilised member of John the Baptist, you bulbous wanker! There’s the fucking door, being held open by the entire fucking country, which don’t you fuck off out of it? Face it, everyone hates you. The Tory party hates you, your wife hates you, your family hates you, your kids hate you – the ones we know about and the ones we don’t – your entire fucking cabinet hates you. With the wretched exception of the world’s worst person, Nadine Dorries, and if you were to transmogrify into a bottle of Chardonnay, she’d drink you up and piss you away! Go! Go! In the name of Mother Mary’s tits, go! I know it’d be like Hitler being replaced by fucking Himmler or Goebbels but just fucking fucking fucking fuck off!

Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall have sadly announced that their love story is at an end and they plan to divorce.

Ah, do you hear even the medieval saints in their stone tombs weeping at this news? Fuck me bow-legged, what were you thinking in the first place, Jerry? That he was actually gonna die soon and all those hideous reptile shags would be worth it? He’s not going to die, he’s fucking Rupert Murdoch! The cunt’ll be around in 100 years time, like one of those fucking South Sea island giant tortoises! And you’re gonna have to go back to advertising Bovril or marry Henry Kissinger!

Rowan Atkinson, the ‘rubber-faced’ comedian who has lampooned men of the cloth such as myself, has complained of a ‘cancel culture’ and that it is the job of comedians to ‘offend’.

No it fucking isn’t. It is the job of comedy to be funny, something you haven’t managed in about three fucking decades! Cancelled, are we? Well, if everything I said got featured prominently across all fucking media, cancel me right now! What’s your problem? Wanna go back to doing your blackface Indian waiter monologue with the funny South Asian accent and no one will let you? You’re a useless, ossified, own-anus-dwelling-in prick and since that’s intended as very offensive indeed, no doubt you’re laughing your bollocks off at it right now!

Finally, Kate Burley tweeted to the affect that she had managed to make Mick Lynch, General Secretary of the National Union of Rail, Maritime and Transport Workers, look ‘flustered’ when she interviewed him on Sky News this week.

Laugh my socks off? I nearly laughed my cock off when I read that! Your thick fucking head near-exploded in a indignant mess of falsetto hysteria when he declined to go along with your fucking sub-tabloid ‘violent Marxists waging class war’ bullshit that patently bore no relationship with what we could actually see ten yards behind him on the fucking picket line! That plate he handed you had your sorry arse on it! Fucking own it, no other cunt wants it!

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I exhausted every possible avenue trying to stop my flight to Rwanda. But tragically, this plane took off

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady 

ONCE again, a plane sat on the tarmac at Heathrow, awaiting clearance. Once again, a passenger was desperate not to fly. But it was me and we had to. 

I tried every legal recourse, from ‘I should stay and look after the kids’ to ‘I’m uncomfortable with their human rights record’ and nothing worked. ‘You’re coming,’ he said. ‘Prince Charles is there, and I never know what to say to the jug-eared cunt.’

So, one week after the Rwanda deportation flight didn’t take off, mine did. ‘You’ll love it,’ said the same dickhead who claims it’ll deter refugees from crossing the channel. Bullshit. Even I couldn’t PR Rwanda.

Problem is it’s not just Charles. All the heads of the Commonwealth look at him the same way: like he’s exactly the kind of cavalier, overeducated pink idiot we used to send to run their countries. And Big Dog has no idea.

‘This feels right,’ he said, swigging a Mongozo banana beer. ‘A few more summits and we’ll get the Empire back together. Pretty sure India’s realised independence wasn’t all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, because I wasn’t high on colonialism. ‘Most of them seem to be dictators. You can’t send me out with their wives. I can’t keep up with the shopping.’

‘Democratically elected,’ he replied, ‘with 98 per cent of the vote, some of them. No free press, so they don’t get the shit I do off the media. They make their wives treasury minister and nobody gives a bugger.’

‘I thought we weren’t talking about that,’ I said. It still hurts, that he knows how capable I am and hasn’t helped my career in the slightest. If anything he’s held me back. ‘Anyway, talking of elections?’

‘Tiverton and Wakefield?’ he said. ‘Fuck all that. Not my problem. I’m in Rwanda,’ and opened another Mongozo.