The Archbishop of Canterbury on... John twatting Cleese

AWAKING, an empty vodka bottle in one hand, I find myself in a large, cathedral-like edifice festooned with flowers and comely maidens. 

In place of the altar is a great throne in which sits God Almighty himself, with Jesus on his right hand, and millling about are luminaries of history from Shakespeare to Newton to St Thomas Aquinas.

I pay my respects to God and admit that, between him and me, I had always thought the Heaven stuff was nonsense. Upon which he smirks, tears off his fake beard and reveals himself to be the Archbishop of Durham who set up this whole prank with a bunch of hard-up actors.

Feeling somewhat vindicated in my original thoughts, I return to my own palace to take breakfast and peruse the periodicals. Therein I read that Jacob Rees-Mogg has blamed the BBC for making a tenuous, partisan connection between the financial crisis and Kwasi Kwarteng’s mini-budget.

Yeah. Sure, you languid, pinstripe streak of oily fuck, like that foul smell in the room has nothing to do with the gigantic shit the elephant has just taken! And that pain you’ve just experienced in the bollocks is completely disconnected to the fucking boot that’s just connected hard and fast with them! Seriously, Tim Loathsome-But-Dim, you can have a fucking pop at the BBC all you like but you cancel the fucking licence fee and you’ll be cancelling one of your biggest enablers, you and the rest of your improperly interrogated shower of disastrous cunts!

The pop star MIA has been waxing sceptic about the take-up of vaccine by the ‘sheeple’ of Britain. ‘People fear me for some reason,’ she says.

Holy Jesus the Son of God, talk about self-aggrandisement passing for fucking critical self-analysis! No one ‘fears’ you, they pity you for appointing your fucking arse your official mouthpiece! Doggerel-spouting, disease-spreading morons like you shouldn’t be getting column inches in the fucking Guardian. You should be made to parade around in a smock, ringing a bill at regular intervals with a wooden plaque round your neck with FUCKWIT painted on it!

In a week of political and economic turmoil, the Daily Mail turned its attention to the prospect that Camilla, the Queen Consort, might be prevented from wearing a crown bearing the 105 carat Koh-i-Noor diamond because of ‘political sensitivities’.

Seriously? And there’s the rest of the fucking press chuntering morbidly on about Truss and Kwarteng drowning the fucking economy with their libertarian incompetence? This is the real news! Seriously, you can’t ignore it, you fuckers! You’re up to your tits in this! You cheered on this mini-budget like it was the fucking Blackshirts! This is on you! And no amount of bleating about cancel culture’s gonna distract your readers from noticing their fucking skyrocketing mortgages! Fucking own it, you spunkwipes!

Finally, it seems John Cleese is to have his own show on GB News. He appeared on the BBC to discuss that which he would not be allowed to say on the BBC.

See, John, Minister of Silly Cunts, there are things that you’re not allowed to say in certain places. My clerks, for instance, only this week drew up a list of words they advise me not to use during Royal funerals, include ‘fucker’, ‘prick’, ‘arsehole’ and ‘cuntflake’. A bit stifling but fair enough, suggestions fucking noted. What are these things you want to say but you can’t, eh? Every child under five should be forced to own a golliwog? We shouldn’t be afraid to mock people who stammer, it might help them buck their ideas up? That London isn’t preserved exactly as it was in 1953 is Political Correctness Gone Mad? What, you ghastly, irrelevant old fucking fool? It’s as well you don’t get to say these things because they reveal you as the senile, xenophobic, fossilised twat that you are! Tell you what, Monty Python would have had a fucking field day with you!

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You say there's nothing I can do to make this worse, Sir Keir. But I'm trying my best

YOUR agents say there’s nothing I can do to make the situation worse and I should sit tight, Sir Keir. But they don’t know me like you do. 

I’m a major asset. I’ve got a skillset beyond their comprehension. There’s nothing I can’t ruin if I turn my mind to it. I’ve even turned Rees-Mogg against me.

It takes a lot to be on the Luddite side of an argument with Jacob, but by banning solar farms for no reason whatsoever I’ve wound up the farmers in his Somerset seat and the investors in his hedge fund.

‘What exactly is the issue, prime minister?’ he said, pushing his glasses up on his nose in a way that in Leeds would be guaranteed to get them stamped on. ‘Why are we interfering with landowners’ right to earn money from their own land?’

‘It’s against nature,’ I said. ‘Power? From the sun? Power comes from deep beneath the earth, where it’s extracted by multinationals. Taking the profit out of energy is anti-capitalist.’ That shut him up.

Great seeing you at PMQs, by the way. Hope I wasn’t too impressive, effortlessly turning every question against you by making it about the energy guarantee. You didn’t seem rattled.

And the 1922 Committee meeting went well, by which I mean terminally badly. An hour of almost total silence. I repeated the same performance using the same energy line, and they had no answer for it.

Afterwards I popped to the tearoom to reassure MPs there’d be no U-turns, that Kwarteng had my full confidence, that we’d still be making all our tax cuts while not touching spending. They looked just about ready to shit.

Oh, and we’re still on course for a massive battle with the EU and US over Northern Ireland and I’m officially labelling China a threat for the first time. But I dunno. I still feel I could do so much worse.