The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that nutsack Donald Trump

WAKING in a gutter in Hamburg’s notorious Reeperbahn, I once again am able to blame no less an authority than the King for my ignominy.  

I had accompanied Charles and Camilla on their state visit to Germany and, after three days of toasting burghers, suggested we give security the slip and visit some of Germany’s more enticing nightspots.

The King was reluctant but Camilla was game and so we hit the St Pauli district for a bar crawl where the Royal couple’s inhibitions swiftly loosened. ‘I’m King Charles!’ yelled our monarch to one and all after his sixth beer. ‘And I’m Queen Camilla!’ shouted Camilla. ‘And I,’ I declaimed, ‘am the PRIMATE OF ALL ENGLAND!’

From the joviality with which we were greeted, I suspect our fellow German revellers assumed we were lookalikes or a cabaret turn; hence our true identities were preserved. Charles prattled in perfect, if slurred German throughout the evening, and I travelled from ignorance to fluency in the language by the night’s conclusion, or such was my unshakable belief.

I daresay there may be some mention of the affair in the newspapers but, perusing the English-language periodicals in Hamburg’s departure lounge, I read only that Donald Trump faces criminal charges over payments to pornographic actress Stormy Daniels.

Douse my clackers in aniseed and dangle them over the wall of fucking Battersea Dogs’ home, is there any fucking chance this might actually result in the pelican faced cunt actually being dragged to court before the year 2050? Or does he still get to ride around his estate all day in a gold-plated gold cart swigging tomato ketchup from the bottle? This shit has been going on for years! There are babies yet unborn who’ll reach old age with all this not fucking resolved! Four simple words: Guilty As Fucking Fuck. Bash the gavel and throw the fucker in a penitentiary to be some 30-stone methhead biker’s prison bitch! Just fucking do it! This afternoon!

Pop star Ed Sheeran has opined that in the modern age of streaming, there is no need for music journalism. ‘Why do you need to read a review? Listen to it. It’s freely available. Make up your own mind.’

Jesus, you fucking divot, is it not enough that you’re hogging about two-thirds of the audience pie with music that’s not so much created as excreted which anyone with functioning brains and ears would rather drink paint than listen to? Some people like you, the vast majority of us fucking have to put up with you! We’re fucking force-fed you! But that’s not enough, is it? You’d hate a music hack to point out that there might be fucking alternatives to having Galway Girl stamping on a fucking human face forever! Fuck off back to the medieval cathedral tower you fell off, you fucking gargoyle!

Ricky Gervais is on tour again across the UK, with tickets selling out fast.

You know, as an Army cleric during the war, I found myself detached from my unit in North Africa and, unfamiliar with the terrain, stumbled into a ravine. My cries for help went unheard for days and, on the brink of starvation, driven to the point of madness, I contemplated gnawing my own genitals off for sustenance. And I tell you this, I would rather gnaw my genitals off this very day than endure a second of the smug, self-satisfied, nasty, torrent of sheer twat that is Gervais. Fuck the absolute fuck off, you monumentally irrelevant shitehawk!

Finally, following the death of Paul O’ Grady, deputy prime minister Dominic Raab paid tribute in parliament to ‘Paul Grayson’ but warned against the danger of ‘wokery… inhibiting British comedy’.

Well, you certainly know what you’re fucking talking about, don’t you! ‘Paul Grayson!’ Oh yes, oh for the days of comedians like Eric Tarbuck, Cannon And Large, Tommy Dawson, of sitcoms Love Thy Blackface, It Ain’t Half Amusing To Be Asian and Are You Being Queer, before Rik Elton came along and ruined everything with his political correctness! Sit down, shut up and never talk about anything again, you wretched fucking cunt!

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'We could dig pits,' says Suella, 'and throw them all down them?' Off-camera, my wife makes the idiot face

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

‘TROUBLE is,’ says Suella on Zoom, ‘apparently rural communities by RAF bases don’t want 6,000 asylum seekers.’ My wife rolls her eyes and sticks her tongue out. 

She does not approve of Suella. ‘A law degree from Cambridge and the best she can manage is home secretary? What happened to ambition? I would be head of media law for Disney by now.’

I avert my eyes from her offensive caveman mime. ‘So we’ve settled on asylum ships,’ Suella continues. ‘We can save them from the breaker’s yard and moor them all along the south coast. They’ll be truly horrible and a marvellous deterrent.’

‘Along the south coast,’ I say. ‘I’ve checked availability,’ she continues. ‘Folkestone, Poole, King’s Lynn, Hythe, all free.’ ‘Those are all our constituencies,’ I explain.

‘Oh. Well there’s Grimsby, Hartlepool, Southport?’ ‘Those are Red Wall seats,’ I say, supressing a sigh.

‘Oh. Well, we could go back to my plan of digging pits,’ she carries on, oblivious, while Akshata writes ‘FUCKING MORON’ on her iPad Pro and holds it within my sightline. ‘Put them in there and don’t tell anyone where they are. Then nobody can complai-’

The connection is cut off. ‘Did I unplug the router?’ Akshata says. ‘Oh dear. Now we are deprived of dribblings from the badger’s arsehole. Seriously, fire the bitch.

‘There is tough and then there is a brick with a face painted on. You can’t work with very, very stupid, even you. And nobody trusts her on immigration because she’s brown.’

‘What about me?’ ‘They don’t trust you either,’ she answers. ‘But they assume you’re just a puppet.’