The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the bastard pig filth

WAKING in a palatial chamber after a convivial evening at Clarence House, I find myself locked in the warm embrace of a woman purring sweet nothings. 

Opening my eyes I realise it is Queen Camilla herself, and I am conscious of another body behind mine, reaching around me sleepily with a playful, uninhibited groan.

I turn to meet the gaze of none other than King Charles III, nude and as ever anointed. Feeling somewhat sandwiched, I rocket from the bed, gather up my staff and mitre, smooth down my cassock and make my excuses.

As I close the door behind me, a voice from the bed calls out dreamily ‘Till next time, Archie.’ Returning to my chambers, I read that the Metropolitan Police detained protestors at the coronation, volunteers handing out rape alarms and a royalist who happened to be standing nearby.

Roast my dog’s cock on the eternal flame of Elvis, are we going to have to assemble some sort of police force in London to arrest the fucking police? I mean, seriously, there was a plot to throw rape alarms at the horses? That was the best you could come up with? I hope they sue the arses off you bunch of fucking sub-SS goons! Literally, the arses, flayed from your fucking bodies, and the bleeding, hairy buttocks placed on spikes in central London as a warning to the rest of you soon-to-be-disbanded, rotten-from-top-to-bottom cunts!

Former hip young gunslinging punk Tony Parsons said of the protestors: ‘How sour they seem, all those middle class kiddies with their #NotMyKing banners, how unhappy they look among those laughing, diverse crowds in London. Listen – he doesn’t have to be your King!’

Fuck’s sake, another grifter in the Allison Pearson mould who made their name as a cultural lefty and then took the shilling to suck establishment dick. ‘He doesn’t have to be your King’? He fucking does, you condescending prick, and there’s fuck all we can do about it! Trust me, I was there! It’s not like he’s Lord Mayor of London or some such sideshow, he’s head of a money-sucking, paedo-protecting operation designed to keep you penniless and powerless and those ‘laughing, diverse crowds’ are a bunch of fucking mugs for celebrating it!

Ex-minister Nadine Dorries, despite censure, is still drawing her wage as an MP while devoting most of her time to her TV career, the earnings of which she has yet to declare.

Boil my piss and dip my dick in it, we’re basically being run by a bunch of cartoon villains, aren’t we? It’s Gotham City minus a fucking Batman! Brazen, criminal parasites dipping their beaks in the public pot as and when they fucking please then lecturing us about benefit scroungers! Seriously, Tories, your time is up. You’re the SDP, you’re the Whigs, you’re political fucking dodos. After you’re kicked out, you are never, ever being fucking elected again! The old cunts you depend on – including Murdoch – will be dead the next time round and then you’ll regret having fleeced the futures of the rest of us!

Finally, it seems that none other than the Archbishop of Canterbury has been fined £500 for speeding in London. He was recorded driving at 25mph in a 20mph zone in his Volkswagen Golf last year.

Great fucking work, Plod! There’s pricks roaring around London in their pimped-up needledick motors, exhausts banging, turbos popping like fuck, and you go after a man of the fucking cloth! Just an everyday, inoffensive Archbishop who wants to get back home for a pint of vodka after a day’s tedious ecclesiastical seminar hosted by the Little Sisters Of The Poor! Well, you’ll get your fucking £500. I’m putting it together now. £500 in banknotes, baked into a fucking cake of my own, blood-flecked shit, delivered to you by courier by the end of the fucking day. Enjoy your fucking pieces of silver, you cunts!

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'Is that a sword?' I ask. 'Like it? It's new,' says Penny, tossing her hair

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

SHE’S not carrying it. It’s just casually holstered at her waist, like everyone’s rocking the everyday accessory of a sword and swordbelt. 

‘Is that-‘ I say, fearing the answer. ‘A sword?’ she replies, cheeks pink with pride. ‘Yes. It’s Lord Nelson’s in fact. I borrowed it from the Navy. The admiral’s an older gent. Very accommodating, not like you.’

‘Ah,’ I say, stalling for time. Because I already knew about the sword. Everybody knew about the bloody sword. We’d all seen her Instagram this morning. Akshata was particularly harsh about it.

Judging discretion the better part of valour, I don’t repeat my wife’s comments about ‘that bloody Valkyrie getting all the plaudits’ or indeed the Coronation being ‘shit’ with ‘a lower per-head spend than our wedding’. Penny is, after all, armed.

‘I think only Black Rod’s allowed a sword in here,’ I say, lamely. ‘Rules rules rules,’ she says. ‘Not as important as winning the hearts of the people, are they? Not as important as losing a thousand councillors, are they?’

‘You see,’ she adds, ‘Fortune has favoured me. I’ve found my thing. A little bit magician’s assistant, a little bit Boudica, a little bit dominatrix. The answer was a sword all along.

‘And now I’ve got this, do we really need you? Losing culture wars? Losing to the Blob on Brexit? Losing every leadership election you’ve entered? Mm?’

‘I’m prime minister,’ I say, breathing heavily. ‘And I’m fucking Britannia,’ she says, a glint in her eye. I note I am uncomfortably aroused.