The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Roger wankshaft Waters

WAKING at the crack of dawn to splashing and a tangy scent, I open my eyes to see I am lying in a grubby tent being urinated upon by Suella Braverman. 

Shrieking and waving my hands, I topple her and launch myself out of the confines of canvas to lie, discomfited and steaming, on the hard paving stones outside.

But as I attempt to gather myself the sensation is renewed, I look up and there is the former home secretary squatting astride my supine form once again urinating copiously. It seems, at that moment, hard to ascertain whether it was better to have Ms Braverman pissing inside the tent or out, both being equally repugnant.

Waking again, I realise that the former was a nightmare but the urine was real and more likely my own. I shower, take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical where I learn that Nigel Farage is a contestant in the latest series of I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here.

Slice my scrotum thinly, what the fuck has happened to this fucking show? Why not just re-christen it I’m A Cunt, Get Me In Here? First Hancock then this fucking grifter? Who’s next, Kim Jong-Un, Viktor Orban and Tommy fucking Robinson? What used to be a innocuous show about eating kangaroo’s knackers has turned into a pension scheme for washed-up quasi-fascists! Ant and fucking Dec, figure out which one of you is which and take it in turns to kick yourselves up the arse with a long fucking run-up, you docile pair of twats!

Former Pink Floyd frontman Roger Waters has made headlines again, claiming that the Hamas massacre of 1,400 Israelis was ‘thrown out of all proportion’.

Oh, for fucking fuck’s sake, are you some sort of fucking plant? Every time a progressive cause tries to get some traction, up you fucking pop with your fatuous, conspiracist bullshit to give us all a bad name! You talk so much out of your arse you’re muffled when you sit down! ‘Out of all proportion’? What the fuck do you know? What inside information do you have? None, you cunt! Making too many turgid, woefully self-important concept albums about walls and trees and cocking hitch-hiking has addled your brain! Shut the fuck up and keep your rancid thoughts to yourself, you shades-wearing tower of toss!

Labour MPs faced a vote on whether to back a ceasefire in Gaza this week. Many were said to have ‘struggled with their consciences’ before abstaining from the motion.

I bet that was a quick and fucking easy victory! Like their consciences put up any sort of a fucking fight! Like Mike Tyson in the ring with Jeanette Krankie, more like! Hmm, let me see now, what’s more important to me: kids dying every ten minutes, killed by bombs manufactured and exported from this country, or my cosy little safe seat and prospects of a junior ministerial post and generous expense account? No fucking contest! Sorry, Gazan kids, we’re living in the real world!

Finally, Everton FC have been docked ten points, the heaviest ever punishment handed to a team, for breaching financial fair play rules. This leaves the club second from bottom in the league.

Well, it couldn’t happen to a shittier, more spacewasting fucking team! I mean, what is the fucking point of Everton? You’ve been stinking up the lower reaches of the fucking Premier League for three decades now, refusing to go down like an unflushable turd, so maybe this judgement is the final poke of the bogbrush that’ll send you spiralling down to the sewers where you belong! Meanwhile Manchester City get off scott free because the 115 charges against them are so lengthy it’ll take until 2070 before a guilty verdict relegates the pricks to the Hackney Marshes Sunday Jumpers For Fucking Goalposts League!

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'Rwanda's never going to work,' says Cleverly. 'Of course not,' I snap, 'it's a Boris idea'

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

A YEAR into the job. Inflation halved thanks to my bold efforts. Braverman finally ditched. And here I am, still trying to make Boris’s bullshit work. 

James Cleverly, my new home secretary very much against his will, is furrowing his brow. ‘So £140 million is what, three planefuls to Rwanda? Not even a week’s worth of boats?’

‘Yes,’ I say testily, well ahead of him. ‘So this whole policy doesn’t make any sense at all,’ he says. ‘Which is why you described it as batshit,’ I snap, tired of his act. ‘Don’t deny it, you’re not on Radio 4 now.’

‘Then why,’ he asks, ‘are we wasting our fucking time?’

‘Because it’s a Boris idea,’ I say. ‘A terrible prime minister but a very strong newspaper columnist. Recent work excepted. And because he made a Friday afternoon column about shipping ‘em off to Africa before their feet hit British soil into entirely unworkable policy.’

‘We could just drop it,’ says Cleverly. ‘They love it,’ I say, despairingly. ‘The Mail loves it. The Sun loves it. The Red Wall loves it, we think, who knows what those mad bastards are about.

‘So we’ve got no choice. We’ve got to pretend it’s actually viable. We’re rushing an act through parliament declaring Rwanda to be a safe country. You’re spending Christmas there with your family.

‘If we really force it, ignore the courts, declare that international law doesn’t apply to Britain and risk economic sanctions we can get a flight of refugees over there as early as August.’

‘Then what?’ he asks. ‘Then immigration is solved and we win the election,’ I say. ‘Is that another Boris idea?’ ‘Yes,’ I admit.