The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that fat-shaming fuckwit Sir Cliff Richard

WAKING in a stupor, struggling to recall what room I am in (my own) and who I am (the Archbishop of Canterbury), I recall last night’s reception at the National Portrait Gallery. 

I had agreed to sit for a portrait by one of Britain’s leading artists, Nicholas Lezarius, as befits a man of my station. It involved a lengthy sitting in my full garb which I must confess felt interminable; hour upon motionless hour passed and I developed a slight thirst.

Finally, understanding how the Mona Lisa felt, I could stand it no longer. I reached into my ecclesiastical holdall, pulled out a litre bottle of rum and chugged in a single draught before casting it aside. Otherwise the sitting passed without incident.

So like the assembled throng of the great and good last night, I gasped when the portrait was unveiled. It depicted me not with the gravitas I expected but swigging thirstily from the aforementioned rum bottle.

I demanded of Lazarius that he explain himself. ‘Your Grace,’ he said, ‘you sat down at 11am. By 11.07am you opened your first bottle and did so at regular 13-minute intervals until the session concluded nine hours later. This is you as I saw you.’

Fortunately, the critics present lavished praise on the portrait, seeing it as an allegory for the stresses on the clergy in fraught times. And so, I take breakfast and read that Sir Cliff Richard told This Morning he refused to have a photo taken with Elvis Presley because The King ‘had put on a lot of weight’.

Fuck me bandy, you rude, scraggy, body-fascist little cunt! You’d never have had your miserably elongated career if it hadn’t been for fucking Elvis, you ungrateful pillar of fossilised knobcheese! Still at least everyone in Britain knows what I and the others who’ve had the misfortunate to endure your fucking company have known for decades:  that you’re a weirdly horrible prick who belongs right next to Cilla Black in the bottom drawer of celebrity loathsomeness! Try having a fucking number one this Christmas, fuckface! You can take your mistletoe and wine and show it half a yard up your fucking sphincter! 

King Charles III has been accused of ‘profiting from the deaths of thousands’, owing to a scheme that allows him to seize the assets of those who die intestate and failing to pass them to charity.

You pilfering piece of shit! We’re just a bunch of peasants as far as you’re concerned, aren’t you? If you had your way we’d all be wearing smocks, lugging rotten turnips across dirtpaths and sleeping in cowshit! At least your fucking mother gave the illusion of being mother of the nation – and let me fucking tell you, illusion it was – but you don’t seem to give a gnat’s toss what cuntocracy you’re running! Still, keep on with this shit and you’ll be Charles the fucking Last!

Matty Healy of The 1975 is smarting at his band’s failure to achieve a Grammy nomination, describing the oversight as an ‘outrage’.

Well, certainly all the outrages being perpetrated in the world right now fade into triviality compared with what Matty Healy has suffered. You arrogant little pisspot of a fucking man! There’s buskers wheezing into harmonicas outside King’s Cross station more deserving of a Grammy than you and your bunch of overproduced, over-entitled, under-talented, cocky-yet-cockless shitehawks!

Finally, it seems that James Cleverly, by some curious oversight our home secretary, was overheard remarking that the constituency of Stockton-on-Tees was a ‘shithole’. He has vigorously denied doing so.

You fucking well don’t get it, do you, cunt? Compounding the fucking felony by lying about it because these days you could be caught on camera wanking during Carols at King’s and still not get sacked? Sure, Stockton almost certainly is a shithole, one of hundreds of near-identical shitholes up and down England except colder. But the reason it’s a shithole is because you and your thieving fucking Tory cronies dug the fucking hole in the first place and have been shitting in it ever since!

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I'm riding a headline high. Everyone loves Rishi again. Nothing can spoil this moment. 'The net migration figures are in,' says Cleverly

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most tax-cutting prime minister

I SPREAD the headlines out in front of me like a teenage boy with his pornographic magazines. Praise, praise, praise. ‘Net migration’s up,’ says Cleverly from behind me. 

I wheel around guiltily, caught in an act of self-aggrandisement. Technically the headlines are praising Jeremy, but not a person in the country is unaware that he’s an anally-operated glove puppet. I know, I’ve run focus groups.

‘How did you get in?’ I ask, perhaps a little squeakier than intended. ‘I mean, how did they get in? The migrants?’

‘Well, we let them, largely,’ he says, sitting down. ‘Gave them visas etcetera. Because we need them to boost the economy. My mother’s from Sierra Leone, yours are Punjabis from Africa, this shouldn’t be a surprise.’

He’s been like this ever since I made him home secretary. Blunt, honest, unbothered by niceties like pretending Rwanda matters. Almost as if he’s in a job he hates but doesn’t care because he’s leaving soon.

‘Suella’s spouting her shit on ex-Twitter,’ he continues, ‘with a magnificent ignorance of the fact she was in charge throughout. Headlines are going to be nasty tomorrow. You’ll be going from Phillip Schofield winning awards to Phillip Schofield shagged a runner.’

‘It’s your job to stop it,’ I say, commandingly, keeping my voice deep. ‘Immigration? I’ll stop issuing visas then, shall I?’ he says. ‘And watch University College London become insolvent overnight?’

‘And what’s this about Stockton-on-Tees?’ I jab back. ‘They’re lying,’ he says, turning to leave. ‘I didn’t say it was a shithole. I said it was a fucking shithole.’