The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Frank Lampard getting the f**king sack

WAKING face down in the green by Salisbury Cathedral, spattered in viscera, I dimly put together the events of yesterday evening. 

Next to me lies Aled Jones in a state of distress, with injuries consistent with having fallen from a considerable height. We had filmed Songs Of Praise – it had gone well, with only a few isolated incidences of violence – after which we went on a pub crawl.

Finishing atop the spire with a bottle of Polish vodka, I urged him to prove his oft-repeated claim that he was able to walk in the air, reassuring him that as a faithful servant of the Lord he would not be allowed to come to harm.

And so we took our leap of faith and Aled plunged to ground with a repugnant crunch while my cassock inflated like a parachute effect to place me daintily on the earth. Having put in a call to the relevant medical authorities, I return to my chambers where I read that Jeremy Hunt has called for ‘optimism’ regarding the future of the British economy.

Joseph’s scrotum nailed to a carpenter’s bench, ‘optimism’? Is that all you’ve got? Do we have Mr Micawber for a fucking chancellor? There’s fuck all grounds for optimism with you in charge of the fucking purse strings! You can’t ask for a fucking coffee without looking like a clueless, weird-eyed cunt! The only people with grounds for optimism are your fucking crony mates who’’ll carry on seeing unearned income flow to their enormous, inert piles on the Cayman Islands while you venal fuckers are in charge! In 30 years time, the C-word will have disappeared, replaced entirely by ‘Jeremy’!

Andrew Gullis, the Member for Stoke-On-Trent North, made a vocal intervention when the issue of child asylum seekers being abducted and trafficked in the UK was raised, heckling that they ‘shouldn’t have come here illegally in the first place.’

Holy fucking Christ, you’re a piece of scum and a waste of a beard, aren’t you? You think it was the kids’ idea to come here, putting out to water for an adventure like the Famous Fucking Five? Face it, you’re not even trying to be an MP any more, are you? Because you’re surely, surely too arsehole even for Stoke-On-Trent North, which is fucking saying something! So every stroke you pull like this is an audition for GB News, a gurning little shit-flinging clockwork troll-monkey beating your pathetic little tin drum of ‘political incorrectness’ for peanuts. You cannot fuck off too soon! 

Former Chelsea and England star Frank Lampard has been sacked as manager of Everton FC following a string of disappointing results.

There’s something you never fucking see – a Tory getting sacked! Whoever told you you could manage? Did you think that because you learn more from losing than you do from winning – and let’s face it, golden generation England did a lot more losing – that you’d be one of the brightest footballing brains on the fucking planet? Never mind, the Tories look after their own. There’s a vacancy coming up for chairman of the Conservative Party, you’ll probably be put up for that!

Finally, on Laura Kuenssberg’s BBC show Boris Johnson’s fearlessly impartial sister Rachel sympathised with embattled Tory chair Nadhim Zahawi, agreeing that ‘tax forms are hard to fill in’.

Yes, the humble likes of Zahawi are too cash-strapped and have enough time on their hands not to use accountants. They sit down, download the forms and do it them fucking selves! I suppose you immediately shot down this fucking nonsense, Laura? Or did you just mentally scribble it down because every time you’re confronted with a Johnson you turn into fucking Boswell? There’s news broadcasters in North Korea watching this and taking notes about how to get away with any old slavishly partisan shite!

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The memoir, releasing a fragrance, a West End musical: how I'm monetising my brand, by Boris Johnson

FORMER and future prime minister Boris Johnson here, updating you on how I’m diversifying Brand Boris during my brief time out of office. Look out for these: 

The memoir

I write not for my sake, but for history. The world needs to know how the helmsman of a great country steered it past the Scylla of Covid and the Charybdis of lockdown. An epic tale of the very preservation of human civilisation, like a modern Iliad.

Will I dwell on the pygmies that brought me down and sought to tether that which they were too small to comprehend? No. I’ll probably be back in Downing Street by then, so I’ll only give severe kickings to Hancock and Cummings.

The fragrance

It’s a natural step for national sweethearts like Cheryl Cole, Jade Goody or myself to release a fragrance. I’m going to call it Power by Boris, and it’ll smell of the leather seats of the Commons, the musty library at Chequers, the fine lacquered wood of a COBRA briefing before it fills with Raab’s flatulence. Launched for Christmas.

The West End musical

Even those grumbling malcontents who refuse to vote Tory – I get it, I’ll be back soon – are fascinated by the Boris story. The rise and fall. The hubris. Icarus. So I’ve booked a theatre for a decade for a jukebox musical that will be as popular and long-running as The Lion King. 

Let’s face it, I’ve ten times the charisma of Hamilton and that show shits cash. First act a humble dreamer at Eton, second act Mayor of London, third act PM and saviour of the nation. Delivering harmonies at the podium while Chris Whitty does backflips, that sort of bollocks.

The Partygate IPA

I’m not ashamed of Partygate because, as is agreed upon by the whole nation, I did nothing wrong. But since it’s now one of my ancillary brands, why not lean into it by releasing some small batch special edition beers?

Only available in high-end supermarkets, I’m envisioning a triad of brews: Bullingdon Stout, 5.3%, the black representing our tuxes and the white head representing our white heads. Partygate IPA, 5.4%, a pale ale in a sober grey-and-silver can, and Sunlit Uplands, 41%, representing the Brexit promise I made and will keep. Yes, 41%. I haven’t missed a decimal.


I’m taking the summer off before dethroning Rishi to the cheers of Britain, so I’ve blocked out a weekend for my own music festival. Held in my seat, the headliners include Drake, a reunited Oasis and the legendary Guns ’N’ Roses. Or if they’re not available other people.

It’ll be three days of debauchery, hedonism, and voices falling to a hush as a single swan sails by on the beautiful English river. All staff will be volunteers, all profits will go to my restoration fund, it’s the perfect springboard back to the position I was put on this Earth to hold. No low incomes. They bring the vibe down.