The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Richard cocking Madeley

WAKING up in a BBC office opposite director general Tim Davie, I recall I have been summoned for ‘a quick word’ following remarks construed as criticism of Rishi Sunak. 

As a regular on Songs of Praise they have the right, though I was relaxed enough about the occasion to enjoy a libation or two on the car in. Consequently I may have dozed off.

‘As I was saying,’ continues Davie, ‘I feel it is inappropriate, given your relationship with the BBC, to be sharing these views.’

‘Surely what I tweet outside of my obligations to the Corporation is my own affair?’ I reply.

‘You didn’t tweet it, though. You said it on Thought For The Day.’

‘Oh. Well, regardless, my views as expressed were measured and reasonable.’

‘I have a transcript here,’ he says, sliding it across to me, where I read my words were ‘Thought For The Day? I’ll give you my fucking Thought For The Day. That Rishi Sunak is an oily, shit-eating, lying little cunt.’

I accept a warning about my future conduct and, suggestion noted, return to my chambers to peruse a periodical. Therein, I learn that Suella Braverman believes urgent measures on small boats are required since 100 million refugees are currently heading to Britain, adding ‘Let’s be clear. They are coming here.’

Christ’s left bollock in a Bolognese, do you think even the stupidest, most racist arsehole battering his shoe on the side of his head every day as he reads the fucking Daily Mail actually believes that? Are they all rapists, even the fucking kids? Do you want to heap that one of your shitheap of fucking lies? Six year old girl rapists coming in their fucking millions to deflower the old men of Stoke-On-Trent! I know Goebbels said people like you have to tell a big lie, but I bet he’s turning in his grave right now, slapping his head and saying ‘Nein, not that fucking big, you scheisskopf!’

It seems that Boris Johnson is pushing for his father to be awarded a knighthood.

A fucking what? For fucking what? Services to breakfast television in spouting grade-A horseshit when there’s a massive government fuck-up to distract from? Services to his wife in breaking her nose but heroically restraining himself to a ‘one-off’ as Fiona Bruce was at pains to assure us on Question Time? They should give fucking Mark Francois a knighthood before they give one to a vile and very English old twat like you!

Richard Madeley has been on our screens this week, venting the concerns of ordinary British people and stepping in when Susanna Reid causes a Tory Minister a moment’s discomfiture.

What is the point of having a democracy or accountability in public life if it’s safeguarded by a bloviating, overtanned, overheated, dimwitted, relentlessly fatuous piece of fucking arse fluff like Richard Madeley? A presenter who makes you yearn for the gravitas, wisdom and heft of fucking Piers Morgan? What the fuck were you doing on Question Time? Are you there to provide balance against the intelligent panellists to make sure that total fucking idiots get a hearing too?

Finally, it seems that Chris Moyles is back in the news, after it re-emerged that when Charlotte Church was 15 and Moyles 13 years older he offered to ‘lead her through the forest of sexuality’ upon reaching her 16th birthday.

Thanks a fucking bunch to the fucking BBC for giving a safe fucking berth to fucking Chris Moyles all these fucking years! The lads, eh? The fucking bantz eh? The lads, the tits-out, ooh duckie, look at the poof over there, but your honour I was just being postmodern and ironic. Fuck you. You are a fucking wanker, Moyles. You are a scumbag. You’re a lump of pure fucking disgrace. You are an eternally damp fucking semen stain on the fucking sofa of BBC entertainment. Fuck right off back to the snickering boy’s changing room that spawned you, you sweaty-balled cunt!

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'To run for election against Gary Lineker is brave but foolish,' Macron said. 'He isn't running for anything,' I explained again

from the diary of Rishi Sunak, prime minister of Fortress Britain

‘I WOULD not run against Zindane,’ Macron explains. ‘He would steamroller me. So you should not run against Gary Lineker.’ ‘I’m not,’ I say, again. 

‘Or Henry,’ he continues. ‘Deschamps, Desailly, even Cantona. Platini, I could take on because his image has been tarnished by Fifa and he has lost his hair.

‘Lineker? Looks better with age, less boyish. With him as leader of your opposition I regret to say, mon ami, you do not stand a chance.’

‘He isn’t,’ I explain. Our Gallic cousins do love to hear their own voices raised in oratory, often to the exclusion of hard factual information. It’s amazing they’ve achieved so much as a country, with that and enjoying sex too much.

‘Gary Lineker,’ I continue, ‘is not a politician. He is a mere television presenter like your Antoine de Caunes, and has no influence on politics. I could fire him tomorrow.’

‘Eh?’ replies Macron, puzzled. ‘So you have entered hostilities with an immensely popular footballing hero and he is not even a politician..? Pourquoi?’

When I fail to answer, because I’m wondering if the French have a word for nuance, he continues: ‘Anyway. The small boats plan. It is merde.’

Discreetly opening Google Translate under the table, I say ‘Then we’re agreed? We’ve got your co-operation on stopping this illegal and dangerous trade in human misery?’

‘Non,’ he replies. ‘It is like Brexit: if they wish to leave the EU, why should I stop them? We have racists here too, you realise. A problem for you is a problem solved for us.’

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘But it’s my only hope of winning the next election.’ ‘Win?’ Macron laughs, raising his Bordeaux Blanc. ‘Non. Not you. My money is on Lineker.’