The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Harry's sodding book sales

WALKING in an upholstered chair at a round table with studio lights beaming down harshly, I realise that I am on the panel of Question Time. 

I must have dozed off, having sampled the green room refreshments copiously, after being called on to provide balance in a panel that consists of Kate Hoey, Julia Hartley-Brewer, Jacob Rees-Mogg and Rod Liddle.

The eyes of Fiona Bruce are upon me. It seems that, in keeping with the title of the show, I have been asked a question. Heaven knows about what.

Hastily gathering my wits, I improvise a tirade on the moral, physical and sexual failings of my fellow panelists containing a record-breaking string of expletives. It is, I understand, the most viewed clip of the show ever on social media and I am to be invited back next week.

My duties to the state broadcaster discharged, I peruse a periodical where I read that Rishi Sunak, flanked by flags, has addressed the nation as prime minister.

Christ’s kidneys in a pie, what stupid fucking ideas have you got up your sleeve now? Following that idiot one making people do maths till they’re fucking 20, which was about as much fucking use as a clown throwing a bucketful of tinsel on a binfire? Business studies for the under-fives? Nurses to work 24-hour days in return for a £100 gift voucher? The homeless to be made to volunteer as human footstools for stressed bankers? Fuck me sideways, staring into your eyes is like staring into a gaping, remote void of oblivion! You have no idea about any fucking thing at all, you useless, stupid-eared little cunt!

Prince Harry’s book Spare, in large part a damning critique of the British media, has sold 1.4 million copies in its first week of publication despite negative reviews from the British media.

Talk about touching a fucking nerve! He’s got the card of the fucking tabloids, right-wing broadsheets and every other hypocritical hack well fucking marked! Mind you, I did my bit: during my last sermon I brought out my advance copy and said ‘Fuck me, there’s stuff about his cock in it! Not sure we need that on a Sunday morning!’ and watched half my congregation raced down the aisles to get a fucking copy! There’s nothing like a denunciation from the pulpit to boost sales! My work is fucking done!

Boris Johnson is back in the news, announcing another trip to Ukraine to meet Zelensky just as the inquiry into Partygate is about to open.

Yes, you sack of rancid semolina, we fucking get it! Whenever it looks like you’re about to get your arse handed to you, hotfoot it to Ukraine and pal with your mate Zelensky in the hope of looking fucking statesmanlike by osmosis! Poor cunt’s got a war to fight and he’s taking time out to gladhand a transparent, useless, opportunistic, jovially psychopathic lying twat! Take care not to step on a fucking mine!

Finally, Right Said Fred’s Richard Fairbrass believes recent arrivals in the country are being trained to combat significant social unrest such as the unvaccinated being dragged from their homes by force.

You know, as with Phil Spector and Wagner, when it comes to Right Said Fred we have to find a way of separating the art from the artist. I mean yes, Fairbrass might shit absolute bollocks on a daily basis, but should that mean we can’t listen any more to any of their nine – that’s fucking right, nine – albums? Well, it’s a fucking sacrifice we’re going to have to make, folks, because Richard Fairbrass is a criminally ignorant bellend who needs to be shot out of a cannon into the Atlantic ocean at terminal speed!

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'They put your sixth-form politics student showreel on the news!' my wife calls. 'That's a party political broadcast,' I explain

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s only prime minister in 2023 thus far

I KNEW it had started and sneak in to see Akshata watch it. ‘They stitched you up! They got your A-level coursework!’ she calls out. 

‘Oh Lord the stare,’ she continues, unaware I am in the room and temporarily struck dumb. ‘He looks like when a baby first learns to focus. Okay, this is going to cost you in polling.’ 

‘It was filmed last week,’ I say, conveying resolute assurance in my voice. ‘No no not that one,’ she continues. ‘This is the one they did in the media studies suite at your school when you were 16.’ 

‘No, this is the one,’ I say, firmly. ‘Nuh-uh,’ Akshata says. ‘This is old. It’s obvious because your speech is just totally generic and promising to fix things but there is nothing in detail.’ 

I don’t say anything, preferring to radiate gravitas and wisdom. Which definitely works, because Akshata turns to me, realises I’m serious, and then covers up her error with hysterical laughter for some minutes. 

‘So what did you think?’ I ask, subtly signalling that we have had our fun and entered a more earnest discussion. ‘Tell me it wasn’t on TV,’ she says. ‘Tell me it’s just YouTube.’ 

‘It was broadcast on the BBC and ITV yesterday evening,’ I say, with a tremor of pride in my voice. ‘Just before The One Show.’ 

‘So people have seen it? Okay. First you come in smelling of NHS and cheap private jet, then this? Not a great start for you. How are you going to pull it back?’ 

‘This is how I’m pulling it back,’ I say. Her expression is not especially kind.