The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the door hitting Liz Truss's arse on the way out

WAKING in my own bed, head clear, having turned in at 10pm, the chirruping of the birds a serene herald to a most clement morning, I an glad of my decision to have a ‘dry night’. 

After all, excreting my liver the previous afternoon seemed a sign from the Almighty that I have been overdoing it a little. I ring for a clerk to free me from the straitjacket I ordered him to place me in last night, for which he still nurses a black eye.

Released, I repair to breakfast for grilled kippers, grapefruit, and, since it is such a lovely morning, a jeroboam of absinthe. Perusing the periodicals, I see that Liz Truss has resigned as prime minister, since ‘given the situation’ she can no longer lead the government.

Jesus shitting out miracles, ‘given the situation’? You fucking were the situation, you fucking Cabbage Patch Randian! You and your idiotically zealous trickle-down mates! We’ll be floundering in the giant dump you took on the country for a decade! That wasn’t fucking trickle-down, that was an excremental tsunami! Oh, and cheers for the apology, by the way – though your twisted, pop-eyed robo-expression made it clear you thought we should be apologising to you! Fuck off further and faster than anyone has ever fucked off before! And maybe take up a hobby like learning to fucking speak!

Speculation is rife that Boris Johnson could return to Downing Street, with pundits and political colleagues minded to think that he is the right man for the job.

You are shitting me. You are shitting me from a great fucking height into an ocean of effluent! He couldn’t have been a more gapingly inappropriate choice if he’d wanked on the dispatch box during PMQs! Even then, you’d have said, ‘oh well, Boris will be Boris!’ Did any of you fish-eyed twats pay any attention to the things he actually said and did, or are you completely lost in some sort of collective Tory stupor? You do realise that, beyond your convulsive little psychodrama there’s a place called the ‘country’ where Boris Johnson’s as popular as a serial puppy strangler? I mean, fuck it, go ahead, whatever kills you bunch of wankers fastest is fucking fine by me!

Matty Healy of The 1975 went viral last week when he asked an Irish fan her name at an album signing. When she replied ‘Dervla’ he replied ‘What? That sounds like something you move gravel with.’

You know, ‘Matty’, and there’s a name that’s not remotely twatty, in my line of work, you get to meet a lot of people, and I’ve developed what’s known as ‘prickdar’. I can tell an entitled, rude, nasty, selfish little prick pretty much from the moment they open their mouth. And the needle on my prickdar dial practically snapped off within 0.0000002 seconds of watching this clip. You need to take a long, hard shit and then dunk your fucking head in the bowl for an hour!

Finally, Channel 4 newsreader Krishnan Guru-Murthy has been relieved of his duties for a week after a clip emerged of him calling Conservative MP Steve Baker the C-word.

Fuck’s sake, it is the solemn duty of a political broadcaster to sift away the dross of the political discourse – the baseless speculation, misinformation and plain untruth – to seek out, scrupulously and with laser precision, the objective, indisputable truth and to speak that indisputable truth to power. And the indisputable truth is that Steve Baker is a cunt! Everyone knows that! Even his fucking family know that! Snap him like a stick of rock and the word ‘CUNT’ would be running right through him! Others abide our question, Baker, thou art a cunt! So much so that you’ll probably be leader after next of the fucking Conservative party!

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How to come down from the news by going on a coke-fuelled bender

WORN out by the ever-heightening drama of British news? Want to return to solid ground gently? Wind down with these comparatively relaxing activities: 

Go on a coke-fuelled bender

Empty your bank account, hand the cash to your dealer, and buckle up. When you come to your senses naked in a ditch with a new boyfriend and facial tattoo you’ll just about have decelerated to normal living pace, until you see the news that Boris is running again and go into cardiac arrest.

Get trollied in Vegas

The lights, the booze, the gambling, the strippers. During normal times these would bring decadent insanity to your otherwise boring life. After catching News at Ten for the last few nights they seem tame diversions for the easily amused. You’ll take them in, but they won’t make you feel anything.

Have an affair

Married? Chat up that girl at work. Single? Wear a low-cut dress and seduce somebody’s husband. Not for the sexual thrill or sense of fulfilment, but because the ensuing ever-heightening histrionics is the perfect slip-road from the motorway of derangement we’ve all been on this week.


Inflation and the energy crisis are reviving the 1970s, so why not get in on it? Bring back the lost art of sprinting through public places without wearing a stitch to lower your adrenaline levels slowly and carefully back to normal after watching Liz Truss tell us all she was still right.

Go to space

A seat on a rocket is barely a week’s interest on Britain’s debt these days. Get the cash, leave Earth’s gravity and look down on all humanity from orbit. It changes astronauts’ outlook on life forever, but your dopamine’s been so maxed out this week you’ll barely manage a half-hearted ‘wow’ before going back to doomscrolling.