The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that dickhead Stanley Johnson

WAKING in a small boat in English waters beside a slumbering Suella Braverman, surrounded by empty gin bottles, I recollect how I arrived at my present pass. 

A Church committee suggested I join the Home Secretary to see for ourselves the conditions for asylum seekers crossing the channel. Regarding myself, the Anglican church, Christ and God as meddling do-gooder liberals, she hoped to persuade me to her robust point of view.

Our debate turned into a drinking contest, which appeared to have petered out into a draw. Through the sea mists I see border patrol officers sailing out to meet us.

Recognising me immediately due to my gold-embroidered cassock and Canterbury cap, I am helped abroad. Braverman, looking the worse for wear, seeks to join me but is swiftly rebuffed.

‘Not you!’ barks the officer, with a kick sending her boat back to open sea. ‘We don’t need your sort in Britain. We run a hostile environment here. Piss off back to Iraq!’ he shouts, as her vessel vanishes behind waves topping six feet.

Back ashore, I read that Sir Keir Starmer has unveiled five missions for government including ‘good jobs and productivity growth’, ‘breaking down the barriers of opportunity to reform’ and ‘harnessing life sciences and technology’.

Christ’s chafing thighs after riding a donkey in the baking sun, ‘missions’? Who the fuck do you think you are, Tom fucking Cruise? Anyone else would use ‘pledges’, but that word turns to shit when coming from your lying mouth because your political history is littered with the fragments of every fucking pledge you’ve broken in the past! Mind you, it’d be hard to tell if you broke this set of promises because they’re so fucking woolly you could knit jumpers from them! Massive economic growth at zero ecological cost, yeah, that’s gonna fucking happen! Twat!

Colourful character Stanley Johnson, father of Boris Johnson, appeared on Good Morning Britain to shoot the breeze with the show’s hosts, suggesting cyclists need not wear helmets and hi-viz.

Yeah, a fucking ‘colourful’ character, including the red of your wife’s blood splattered all over after you broke her fucking nose! No way should a disgusting, ignorant cunt like you be allowed anywhere near a fucking TV studio! Yours are the genitals that spawned the fucking psychopath whose reckless ambition has left this country literally and metaphorically drowning in shit! If Starmer had a pair, he’d have made one of his missions to have you castrated with a clawhammer and your balls nailed above the door of 10 Downing Street as a fucking warning!

Roald Dahl’s publishers have rewritten passages in his books, right-wing commentators to suggest we were on the slippery slope to Nazi Germany.

Who gives a shit? He was a fucking anti-Semitic twat! You might as well rewrite Mein Kampf so that it was more suitable to read to children at fucking bedtime! No one should be exposing their kids to any thoughts or words that emerged from the warped. diseased mind of this weird uncle who should have been no more writing kids’ books than Stanley Johnson should be made Minister For Road Cycle Safety!

Finally environment minister Thérèse Coffey has suggested that during the current, non-Brexit related tomato shortage, Britons might turn to winter vegetables such as the turnip.

Fuck yeah – an insalata tricolore with mozzarella, avocado and turnip, just the job! Turnips? The abused donkeys at donkey sanctuaries turn their noses up at fucking turnips! At least Marie Antoinette suggested we eat cake! And what happens when the turnips run out, as they’d find a way of doing under this fucking government? Well, we could eat shit! It’s currently abundant and flourishing in our waters, truly a British specialism to be cherished! Our very own shit! Just take a boat and a net and scoop up all the turds you need – no charge, just another handout from this generous government! Because this is what it’s fucking come to in this country!

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My hard, diligent work has fixed Johnson's broken Brexit deal. He tells me I can shove it up my arse

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

IT’S taken months of tough negotiation to fix the broken Northern Ireland protocol. Boris doesn’t care. ‘Shove your tawdry compromise up there sideways,’ he suggests. 

‘Compromise,’ he continues, while I frantically signal to an office full of people avoiding eye contact, ‘is for other people. Like rules. Frankly the Protocol bill was only to keep that cretin Liz busy.’ 

‘But,’ I explain while he breathes heavily down the phone, ‘we risk a trade war with the EU if we-’ ‘Exactly,’ he interrupts, reminding me of all the times I explained how Covid works.

‘Who doesn’t love a war?’ he continues. ‘Look at Zelensky. Two years ago he was nothing but the guy on the end of a threatening phone call from Trump. Today’s he’s scoring the finest pussy on the continent and Berlusconi’s up in arms about it. 

‘A trade war is win-win. Brings down inflation because there’s bollock all to buy, gives everyone that patriotic glow, boosts British industry. Liberals say it’ll kill the poor, but I’ve found them to be remarkably resilient.’ 

‘Why are you calling?’ I ask, reframing the discussion to assert dominance. ‘Aren’t you busy with your duties to constituents in Uxbridge and South Ruislip?’ 

‘Fuck those cunts,’ he replies. ‘I never took to that seat. I preferred Henley, it’s much more me. I’ve added the sitting MP on my Honours list and he’s pissing off in return for a peerage. Anyway, you know I’m coming back?’ 

‘Back where?’ In earshot, a Spad giggles. ‘Back to Number Ten,’ Boris says. ‘Unfinished business. Sort Northern Ireland out if you have to, but you’ll get no credit. And you’re not chancellor either. I’ve promised it to Truss so her tax headbangers back me.’ 

I hang up. Truly a glimpse into the kind of derangement that comes with untrammelled access to power. I hope I never go that way. ‘Boris says he must have got cut off but he’ll be back after the May elections,’ the Spad says.