The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Jeremy Clarkson's Arse-Levels

WAKING in intensive care, following a WhatsApp challenge from His All Holiness Bartholomew I of Constantinople that I could read the Ryan Giggs poem to the end without hurling, I regret my naivety. 

Still, I made it to the seventh line before vomiting the contents of my stomach, a pint of bile and my stomach lining, which on reflection seems a moral victory. While recuperating I catch up on my periodicals where I learn that Boris Johnson has, during the cost of living crisis dominating the late days of his tenure, taken not one but two holidays.

Holy Christ’s raging fucking erection, if they cut your belly open it wouldn’t be fucking entrails that came tumbling out, it’d be a steaming, slithering mass of brazen fucking gall! Holiday? Holiday from fucking what? You fought tooth-and-nail to keep this job over the summer because you wanted to carry on being Prime Minister the way an eight-year-old boy plays at being a fucking engine driver. And then you spend it sprawled on your arse dozing off sangria, like the lazy, greedy, pathologically shameless, oblivious cessmonger of a cunt that you are! Nero fiddled while Rome burned; you couldn’t even be arsed to pick up the fucking instrument!

I read that Jacob Rees-Mogg has decreed that guest speakers at the Cabinet Office will have their social media accounts vetted to check whether they have ever criticised government policy.

Well, you ghastly human pinstripe, that’s me out for a fucking start! Just take a look at my last few sermons, including Concerning Ms Suella Braverman’s Being A Twisted Streak Of Diseased Pigshit, Reflections Upon Dominic Raab And What An Ocean-Going Horse’s Cock He Is and Touching Upon Why Liz Truss Should Dip Her Empty Head In A Fucking Woodchipper! Jacob Rees-Mogg: proof that fascism doesn’t come goosestepping in helmet and jackboots but wafting weedily in from an old fucking Beano cartoon in a top hat and with no fucking chin! 

Jeremy Clarkson has, as is his wont, has consoled those with poor A-level results not to worry, since he now drives expensive cars and holidays on a boat.

See, this is the thing with you, Clarkson – you actually think your life is some sort of fucking success! You actually fucking believe that. There you are, perched atop the totem pole of your wankdom, a tall pillar of ossified fucking spunk, universally derided except by other would-be Alpha-wankers, spouting verbal exhaust fumes and vapour trails into the fucking atmosphere and imagine that you have been of some fucking good in this world! As part of my ecclesiastical duties, I had the privilege of addressing a group of sixth formers at a South London Church of England school. I told them most solemnly: ‘Try your hardest at A-level because the last thing you want is to end up is being a thick, revolting, ironed-jeaned pollutant like Jeremy fucking Clarkson!

Finally, it seems that Amol Rajan has been appointed as presenter of University Challenge.

What is it with this fucking ubiquitous fucking creep? This arse-dwelling fucking hack? It’d be a fucking challenge to him to spell the word ‘university’ but here he fucking is, everywhere, like all three Dimblebys simultaneously! Never mind A-levels, Rajan is proof that if you suck corporate media cock relentlessly until your gag reflex vanishes and your tonsils atrophy, you too can be any cunt you fucking want to be!

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The Tesco delivery man and my other showbiz friends, by Matt Smith

ONCE you’re catapulted into stardom, as I was when I was Doctor Who for a bit, you get a contact book like you wouldn’t believe. These are five of my most A-list friends: 

The Tesco delivery man

Darren. Or Dean. Or possibly Dale. It doesn’t matter – this guy is my number one, most reliable, always-there-for-me friend. You know how some people, for example Claire Foy, you think you’re close to but when you call they’re all ‘I’m actually filming in Atlanta right now?’ Not this guy. I call and he comes. The laughs we have on the doorstep as I transfer my big shop from his plastic crates into my own bags before storing the groceries in my fridge and/or cupboards. Seriously, top dude.

Kevin, from the gym

When I got the role of Prince Philip, I knew I had to get incredibly ripped like I would for a Marvel movie. If I got offered one. Which I haven’t been because Morbius doesn’t count. Anyway, my personal trainer Kevin and I have been inseparable ever since. We go for lunch – which he charges me for at his normal hourly rate because I’m taking up time he’d otherwise be paid for, I get it – and just chat, for hours. Mainly me because Kev’s a doer, not a thinker. Though he is a drinker. He had seven pints of Strongbow last time.

The landlord of the Sir Pickering Phipps public house

You know who’ll be on my arm at the House of the Dragon premiere? Not a glamorous actress like my ex Lily James, but the landlord of my local. We spend hours together in companiable silence. I drink by the fruit machine, waiting for some luckless knobhead to pump a load of quids in, then I slip in and rinse it for the jackpot. He doesn’t even know I’m famous. Shit, I forgot to ask him to the premiere. And it’s quiz night. Shit.

Hans from Dusseldorf

I began writing to Hans when I started secondary school at 11 and was made to in German lessons, and I’ve written to him every single week since for 28 years. 1,450 letters detailing my entire life from school to Hollywood. There have been highs and lows but I couldn’t have done it without him. And never once has the prick replied. Once he does, I’m sure he’ll fill me in on his hectic decades. If he doesn’t it’s been a total waste of time. I genuinely hate the Krauts.

@sniperkitten217 who I play Fortnite with

I often work on location and during those lonely hotel nights I’ve got well into Fortnite. I was a total ‘n00b’ until @sniperkitten217 took me under his wing and showed me how to find shield potions, when to deploy an assault rifle, tips on gaining higher ground, all that. He’s honestly the coolest guy ever. I look up to him. I’m pretty sure he’s a 13-year-old from Arkansas, but that’s not important to me. Next week is a big week, because I’m getting the new FIFA. That kid is about to get destroyed.