The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Her twatting Majesty

FOLLOWING an inebriated altercation with a Songs of Praise runner – these things frequently happen in the ‘rough and tumble’ of religious broadcasting – I wake in a cell.

Leaving the Bishop of Ely to settle my bail, I repair to a BP garage for coffee and to appraise myself of the day’s current affairs. It seems Sir Keir Starmer has announced that it is our ‘patriotic duty’ to celebrate Her Majesty The Queen’s Platinum Jubilee.

The Father, the Son and the Holy Arsehole, of all the grovelling, greasy, sycophantic, pinstriped pricks ever to lead what’s laughingly called the fucking ‘Labour’ party, you are by a shitty stick the greasiest! Even fucking Boris Johnson wouldn’t come out with as nauseating a dollop of fawning toad stew! Who the fuck are you trying to impress? I’ll tell you this, flagshagging Telegraph readers who play the national anthem during sex with their wives may be a bunch of psychotic, gasket-blowing nutters but they know a fucking creep when they see one and that’s exactly what you are, you fraudulent cunt!

Van Morrison has been in the news this week, as his long-running dispute with Northern Ireland ministers over public health information continues.

Fuck off, Morrison, you surly, piggy-eyed fucking rhinoceros’s turd in human shape! Not content with being the rudest cunt who ever walked God’s earth facing old age and utter irrelevancy, you’ve decided the world needs your own personalised methane of toxic, death-dealing misinformation! When you die they should perform medical experiments on your body just to see how one fat prick could be pumped with so much fucking poison!

Returning to the Platinum Jubilee, I feel we should pay tribute to Her Majesty the Queen, who has reigned over us since 1952, and with whom I have had the pleasure of exchanging full and frank views on a number of occasions over the years.

A joyless, frigid misanthrope whose main loves are horses and paedophiles, indeed whose ideal companion would be a paedophile horse! A parasite whose job it is to sit atop a shitheap of privilege and make sure every cunt in this country knows their fucking place! Someone whose ‘service’ applies to fuck all except waving begrudgingly from a golden carriage delivering platitudes like fucking fake pearls in a monotone so flat it sounds like David Attenborough’s got a fucking gun to her head! She didn’t like it when I exchanged that view with her, I can fucking tell you!

Finally, it seems that Sunday, the main day of the Jubilee celebrations, is likely to be marred by heavy rainfall.

You know what? Fuck all that stuff about prayer being a load of old futile bollocks. Because I fucking well prayed for this one. Prayed my bollocks off for it, I did. And for once, just once, I got answered! I hope it’s a fucking monsoon, the very wrathful and plentiful urine of God, sweeping away every last trestle table of cakes and urn of weak tea, every last row of shit bunting, and the red, white and blue-hatted old folk waving their feeble little fucking flags. You’ve had 70 years, piss off!

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Outdated monarchical heads-of-state are on borrowed time. I'm prettier than Kate

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, wife of the prime minister: 

I MIGHT be with a Tory, but I’m a radical. He may clap away, but I believe we should replace the monarchy with a vibrant dynamic US-style First Lady. 

We need a head of state, people say. For visiting dignitaries, for high-profile summits, to express the national mood on key occasions. And I say ‘voila’.

The model looks of a classy Melania Trump; the moral courage of a white Michelle Obama. I’ve got both, wrapped up in English rose and being the best PR of my generation.

Look at the G7 summit. My dress was a sensation, it was going incredibly, the US network cameras adored me. Then old Queenie and her living-on-carers’-allowance son turn up and everything grinds to a halt.

‘It’s only because of the Commonwealth that Trudeau spent all night chatting to Charles,’ I told Big Dog. ‘He was desperate to talk to me.’

‘I bet he fucking was,’ he said, pouring himself a Dubonnet and gin. ‘Horndog. You know his dad married a 22-year-old when he was prime minister? Beats even me.’

‘Should we get rid of them? The Royals, I mean. They do confuse the branding. And Kate’s really showing her age.’

‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘They fucked up losing Meghan. Proper box-set hot, though she’s boringly global-compassion-communities. ‘So am I,’ I said. ‘Mm,’ he said.

‘Anyway it’s not that simple,’ he said. ‘British public like them. Not sure you’ve really made the Diana breakthrough yet, afraid to say. It’ll come.’

‘And I am prettier than Kate?’ ‘Much prettier,’ he said. ‘And much less of a bitch. By the way, if she mentions it this weekend, I never slapped Pippa’s arse.’