The Archbishop of Canterbury on... home-schooling not being lockdown, dickheads

WAKING in an empty bathtub, I find the call of nature ringing urgently in my ears and my head throbbing as if it were being hammered by respected craftsman Mr Fred Flintstone. 

As two of my favourite pastimes are bathing and imbibing, I had the inspiration to combine them by bathing in vodka. It is beneficial to the environment, saving as it does on water.

Unfortunately my enthusiasm for vodka, redoubled by the novelty of bathing in it, was such that in my thirst I drained the entire tub in record time, and was cold and unconscious with a rubber duck balanced atop my genital array in mere minutes.

I fear the experiment has been a failure but since I have arranged for the plumbing in the Palace to pump out pure Tolstoy, including the guest chambers, I cannot reverse the plans before the hosting of an under-14s choral championship next week.

With a shrug, I urinate copiously and return to my chambers to peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Grant Shapps has been appointed defence secretary, his fifth cabinet appointment in a year.

Roast slices of my buttocks on an open fire, Shapps? A blue suitful of personal ambition and fuck all else? Just as well there’s not a major war on or anything so we can afford to have some useless cunt who went into politics because he couldn’t hack it as an estate agent in charge of fucking defence! You know that nagging little voice in your head that tells you you’re not up to the job? That you’re a no-good phoney? You don’t fucking hear that, do you, Shapps? You sail shamelessly through life, leaving fuck-up after fuck-up in your wake like the vacuous, ruinous Tory twat that you are, never entertaining a single doubt! And once you’ve accidentally sent the RAF to raze Kyiv to the ground you’ll probably get the keys to Number fucking Ten!

The closure of hundreds of schools built from unsafe concrete means children face a September of home-schooling. The Daily Telegraph has bemoaned the phenomenon as the ‘return of lockdown’.

Yeah right, Telegraph, today’s kids, eh? We had our ceilings collapse on us all the time in our day and it didn’t do us any harm! We dusted off the asbestos and got on with our sums! Proper English sums, not this politically correct maths you get nowadays! Pity it’s not our fucking C of E churches built from concrete with the structural integrity of a mint Aero, because if they collapsed it wouldn’t matter because there’s never any bastard in them!

It seems that 81-year-old Mitch McConnell, Senate minority leader for the USA’s Republican Party, has once again ‘frozen’ in front of the press cameras, provoking a wave of concern for his condition.

Not from me it fucking well hasn’t! Serves the evil twat right! He’s spent his entire career fighting tooth-and-nail to see that ordinary American people don’t get the free medical treatment he currently gets as a Senate politician! I hope his brain, completely incapable of reflection and lacking any conscience, is atrophying painfully right fucking now! Next time they trundle him out I hope he pisses right down his inside fucking leg!

Finally, John Cleese is to return to our screens with a new show on GB News, taking a sidelong look at current affairs. ‘Be prepared to be shocked,’ said the Fawlty Towers funnyman who has complained that he would be cancelled by the BBC these days.

Oh, we’re not going to be shocked. First, because we’re not going to be fucking watching. Second, because we know full well what a reactionary, toweringly irrelevant xenophobic tosspot you’ve ossified into in recent fucking years! Yeah, you’d get cancelled by the BBC, the way a toxic, wet, lingering fart gets cancelled by a routine spray of air freshener! You are a fucking ex-comedian. There are people with grandchildren who weren’t born the last time you said or did anything remotely fucking funny. Just retire to the little English village of Shut-The-Fuck-Up, you embarrasment of a cunt!

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'Energy, housing, defence, is there anything I can't do?' laughs Grant Shapps. The room falls silent

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s time-serving prime minister

‘JACK of all trades, master of all trades, that’s me!’ chortles Grant, on his appointment to yet another Cabinet post. I don’t correct his mistake. 

In truth, I only consider Shapps a safe pair of hands because he can be relied on to do nothing. Whether he’s in a job six days or six months, all he’ll do is schmooze billionaires to set up his post-MP consultancies. 

That’s venality you can trust. Not like Tugendhat or Mordaunt. They’re each very popular with the armed forces in their own ways – I’m told the top brass regularly have a tugendhat to photos of Mordaunt – which is the last thing I bloody need. 

Six months of competency is enough for a tilt at being leader in this party. I can’t risk it, so it had to be Shapps. But I’m not sure he fully understands my reasoning. 

‘It’s not easy being a renaissance man, Rishi,’ he says, expansively, feet on my desk. ‘Watching other people struggle with tasks, knowing you could pick them up and complete them perfectly at the first time of asking.

‘How many different roles have I excelled in so far? Housing, energy, transport, business, international development, and not forgetting home secretary. And now defence. Look up polymath in the dictionary and there’s a picture of me.’ 

‘Dictionaries aren’t illustrated,’ I say, evenly, ‘and weren’t you only home secretary for six days?’ ‘Six glorious days,’ he replies, ‘that still burn bright in the nation’s memory.’ 

‘Anyway,’ he concludes, ‘can’t hang about. A new brief to master. Not that it’ll take me long. If we win Ukraine thanks to my ideas, can you make sure I get credit?’ 

With that, Britain’s most deluded man leaves my office. It must be wonderful being him.