The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Lord of the Arseholes, Alan Sugar

WAKING in Kings College, Cambridge, it is a moving experience indeed to look on as the boy choristers shuffle in to the chapel ready for the annual service. 

But as I, and the nation, anticipate their dulcet, mellifluous tones ringing around the rafters of the chapel with angelic grace, there is a look of pious horror in their eyes which may be because, for reasons my mind is too fogged by spirituous liquor to recall, I am dangling in the nave from a 20ft silken rope round my left ankle, cassock upended, swinging in a gentle circle. “Sing up, boys!” I urge them. “Carry on!”

Returned to the ground, I retire to borrowed chambers where I read that Lord Sugar of Amstrad has lambasted RMT leader Mick Lynch. ‘Are you happy with yourself bringing the country and ordinary people down on their knees over Xmas? You don’t fool me waiting for the employers to come to the table. You love the publicity. Your members would like to earn what you get. Why don’t you waive your salary?’

Mary Magdalene’s twat in a jar, it’s a bit rich having a pop at workers for downing tools when you’ve only upped tools 14 per cent of the time at the House of fucking Lords! You might as well be on fucking strike, not that any cunt would notice! No one’s gonna be on their fucking knees this Christmas except the poor sod who shines your shoes and blows you! Were you planning on getting a train on Christmas Day? They don’t fucking run anyway, you twat! ‘Love the publicity!’ Not like your shy, reclusive, Howard Hughes-like self, eh? The fucking UK Trump, lording it over bellends on The Apprentice when you should be actually lording it in the House of Lords, rather than festering on our screens with your scrotum face on a fucking weekly basis!

Journalist Isabel Oakeshott has made multiple media appearances questioned the worth of British nurses on strike, suggesting that in her experience they spend a good deal of their time ‘standing around drinking tea’.

She says on a fucking TV current affairs show as the host, with no sense of irony, sips from a mug of fucking tea as she spouts her ludicrous but lucrative bollocks! Tell you what, Oakeshott, if by some terrible accident you were to be admitted to hospital with a gaping headwound, I for one wouldn’t fucking blame the nurses on hand for standing around drinking tea as the blood gushed from that thick skull of yours! You are Britain’s least fucking essential worker! The more time you spent standing and drinking tea and the less sitting down to write obnoxious bollocks for dyspeptic, porcine Tories in the Shires who know fuck all about anything, the better!

Matthew Parris, often regarded as a ‘good Tory’ with his engaging smile and polished prose, has written in the Telegraph that though it is a tricky conclusion for liberals like himself, ‘Rwanda is the right place for boat people.’

I feel your pain, Matthew, as a moderate, sensible Tory, weighing up matters and deciding you have no alternative but to act the quasi-fascist cunt! That such a good and amenable person like yourself should feel compelled to advocate a policy on immigration as futile as it is fucking sadistic, well, I tell you, I’m weeping buckets here! Tell you what, though, don’t just tell it to the fucking Telegraph readers hunkered in behind their sandbags to keep out invading Albanians! Tell it directly to the fucking asylum seekers themselves! Let’s put you out in a dinghy onto the Channel and you can paddle out and explain to them personally why they need to be flown out to Africa in order to preserve this green and pleasant land from their defiling presence! See if you can get to 100 words before they throw rocks at you, you knock-kneed, over-privileged, drivelling streak of odious fuck!

Finally, Lord Ashcroft, former deputy chair of the Conservative Party has weighed in on the danger of Christmas being cancelled, saying ‘I shall continue to wish everyone a happy Christmas and will not change this to a happy festive season.’

Whew! I’m glad someone’s recognised the danger! Because there’s a serious fucking chance this year that by order of the London Borough of Newham there’ll be no decorations, no presents, no Santa, no supermarkets blaring out Greg Lake, Slade and the fucking Pogues, just one long round of ascetic fasting to please the woke brigade! Every fucking year some Tory shithead tries to kick this off and every fucking year we get Christmas the same as ever, the goose and Noddy Holder getting fatter and all! I think half the people in this country wish they would cancel Christmas on the quiet – miserable waste of everyone’s fucking time – but there’s no chance, you twat, no fucking chance! ‘Lord’ Ashcroft! Fucking Lord Lucan was a better Lord than you!

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'Raab's no bully,' I told her. 'When he lifts me by my lapels, it's just to emphasise his point'

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

DOM? He’s a great guy. An action man. Gets things done. Now Gav’s gone, he’s the hardest dude I know. He only lifts me up so we can be at eye level. 

He was doing it the other day. ‘Five more complaints?’ he said. ‘Give me their names. Give me their fucking names or I throw you through that window.’

I wasn’t taking any of his nonsense. ‘That’s an internal window. I’d just land on Michelle Donelan’s desk and there’s enough in her in-tray already!’ I quipped, unintimidated.

‘Prick,’ he joked back, putting me down. ‘I’m justice secretary, alright? That means I deal the justice. Like Judge Dredd. These complainants? Remind them my karate can kill a man.’ And he stalked off, his forehead vein throbbing.

‘So I handled it,’ I tell my wife over gaeng daeng in the small kitchen. She prefers me not to eat in the main kitchen, which I respect because that’s how to make marriage a success.

‘Handled it?’ she says. ‘You let him hoist you like a pallet of bricks on a building site, and you’re in control? Heaven help us. You see this opportunity, right?’

‘It’s an opportunity,’ I say, ‘to show that I stick by my team and reward loyalty.’ ‘No. It’s an opportunity to get rid of this jumped-up prick who was only tough in nice grammar school. Put him on the scrapheap with the bitch Patel.’

‘Dom?’ I say, scandalised, while straining not to glimpse a future where I can freely visit the members’ tea room. ‘I couldn’t do that, and not because the ERG won’t let me like with Braverman. He’s a friend!’

‘Oh love,’ says Akshata, ‘I thought you knew? You don’t have any friends.’