The Archbishop of Canterbury on... King twatting Charles the Third

WAKING in a chair in a TV studio I realise with a start that I am seated opposite a grotesque gargoyle that is, I soon surmise, an open-mouthed Piers Morgan. 

Having enjoyed the refreshments of his green room, it appears I nodded off after an impromptu and fulsome assessment of the failings of a certain politician.

‘What you have just said,’ thunders Morgan, ‘amounts to the most disgusting, drunken, foul-mouthed, treacherous, unfounded, pornographically obscene and libellous tirade against a former prime minister I have ever heard. That it comes from a man of your spiritual authority makes it all the worse. This will be the ruin of you, you realise that?’

‘We shall see,’ I reply. taking my leave. And, as suspected, I suffer no consequences since literally no-one was watching Morgan’s show, not even the sole member of studio floor staff who was blessedly unconscious at his station.

Back at my chambers, I peruse a periodical and learn that King Charles has been in the news for his withdrawal of a Royal property from Harry and Meghan and his inability to attract star names to his coronation festival.

Holy Moses’s cock commandments, have you any fucking idea of the optics of this, you wheezing mass of fucking burst capillaries? ‘Sorry, son, hop it, we need to vacate this house for your Uncle Andrew. See, there’s good royals and bad royals and we want to send out a message to young people about the difference between the two.’ I mean, fuck to the power of fucking fuck! Tell you what, though, if this is your outlook, I hear Gary Glitter’s out of the slammer, why not have him headline your fucking coronation festival? Ossified twat!

Matt Hancock has regretted passing his WhatsApp messages to journalist Isobel Oakeshott, who leaked them to the Daily Telegraph and revealed to Britain that his decision-making during the pandemic was often flawed.

Of all the piss-weak twats to pour themselves into a suit in Johnson’s government, you were the piss-weakest. Why in the name of fuck did you trust Oakeshott? Did you hope she might make up something about you fucking a farm animal which might marginally enhance your reputation? Did you fall for her because she was a girlie so she might be your girlfriend if you copped a feel of her arse in a fucking lift? I bet you wish you could lock yourself down for the next 20 years till your blushes subside, you wretched little tit!

Ardent Brexiteer Steve Baker expressed his relief at the breakthrough Northern Ireland deal, talking openly about the toll it has taken on his mental health.

For fuck’s sake. Won’t someone think of the fucking frothing, gibbering, right wing Europhobes who plunged us into this colossal fucking mess? Cost to your mental health? How well was your fucking brain functioning back in 2015 when it thought Brexit would be a good idea? You deserve to be strung up by your ballls and pelted with fucking tomatoes, you self-absorbed, self-deluding, self-pitying bucket of dicks, only thanks to you we’ve no fucking tomatoes so it’ll have to be rotten turnips instead!

FInally, it seems that Noel Gallagher has misgendered Sam Smith in an interview with Dutch media, calling them a ‘f***ing idiot’ and ‘uncool’.

As every year rolls goes by, and you get duller and fucking duller, making dishwater taste like fucking absinthe, don’t you? Because it’s all you’ve got left in your shrivelled, greying fucking arse, this sub-90s laddish shithousery! Are you on a mission to out-twat Morrissey? Why don’t you just fucking shut the fuck up, listen to your all-white, all-hetero, all-rock, all male fucking record collection and let the world change without you, you ignorant cunt!

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'Why does nobody like me even though I fixed Brexit?' I asked. 'Do you hug the man who mended the toilet?' my wife answered

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most compromising prime minister

IT’S a diplomatic triumph. Ursula from the EU said so. ‘Well done,’ my wife says. ‘You mended the thing that everybody bloody hates.’ 

‘It’s been a lot of hard work,’ I admitted, wondering why recognition of my achievement had been so grudging. ‘Hard work which Starmer won’t have to do,’ Akshata says. ‘Why are you so stupid?

‘Nobody hugs the man who fixed the toilet,’ she continues. ‘Nobody cheers the man who gets Channel 5 back on air. I guess it needed doing, but a triumph? Hardly. Congratulations. You are the guy who mended the thing that is fundamentally broken.

‘Literally the only point of Brexit was to turn Britain into a tax haven so I could feel safe leaving a few hundred million here. And with the pound and the taxes? Guess what? I don’t.’

‘It was the will of the people,’ I say, knowing that if Akshata has a flaw it’s her distance from the common man. Bless her, she didn’t have the proletarian upbringing I had, in that rough-and-ready Southampton pharmacy, playing racecars on the floor with anti-depressants.

‘It was the will of the rich people,’ she counters. ‘Dad was on the conference call with Murdoch and the rest in 2015. If it had worked out, fine. It didn’t, and that’s going to take more fixing than a Northern Ireland patch unless you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Still,’ I say, asserting dominance and implicitly dismissing her conspiracy talk, which is too ridiculous to believe, ‘it’ll give me a boost in the polls. The man who tamed the ERG.’

‘The bloody polls tamed the bloody ERG,’ she responds. ‘They still hate this shitty hotchpotch of a deal, but they’re chronically unemployable and about to lose their seats.

‘Honey, nobody gives a fuck for Northern Ireland and nobody wants Brexit. You’re only doing the job because Truss failed. Call an election so we can all go home.’