The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the duplicitous idiocy of Sarah pissing Vine

9th December 2022

WAKING in a skip on an industrial estate in what would appear to be Doncaster, bedded down in the broken glass of a gross or more of rum bottles, I sigh.

Having ascertained with a finger dab I am indeed smeared in goat faeces, I promise myself that I will never again agree to Christmas drinks with Gloria Hunniford.

I remove myself, am jetwashed by a kindly native, hitch a lift to London and return to my chambers where I read that Matt Hancock is to quit as a Conservative MP, explaining that he wishes to explore ‘other ways to communicate with people’.

Christ’s left bollock in a sweet-and-sour sauce, that is some pseudo-selfless bullshit right there. What are you gonna do, Hancock? Live in the hills as a Tory guru, subsisting on wild berries and squatting on top of a 20 foot pole in a fucking loincloth, preaching the virtues of austerity and trickle-down economics to pilgrims ? ‘Other ways to communicate’, my arse! Your constituents were pissed off with you spending the time you should have been spending at your fucking surgery in fucking Australia with your head in a bucket of wallaby shit! You jumped before you were kicked, you vapid, arse-groping twat!

Meghan Markle and Harry Windsor have been criticised for their Netflix documentary discussing difficulties within the Royal Family, including a light-hearted anecdote about Meghan meeting the Queen. ‘Why is it okay for Meghan to mock our culture in this way? Or does racism only work one way?’ thundered Sarah Vine.

Yes! Yes, racism does only work one fucking way, you poisonous, self-pitying bint! If you think there’s any equivalent between your performative outrage as a fucking white person and the shit black people have to put up with on a fucking daily basis, aided and abetted in good part by shrieking shitrags like the Daily Mail, you’ve another think coming fast and hard upside your fucking head! You’re living proof that being literally fucked by Michael Gove, as opposed to metaphorically like the rest of us, addles the brain!

Meanwhile, one of Britain’s finest Royal writers Robert Hardman has said of the documentary ‘Thank goodness our late Queen didn’t have to endure this.’

Seriously, you sycophantic fuck? I wonder if the Queen would go along with this? If she hadn’t had a policy of never saying anything about anything, living or dead, she might have said, ‘Actually, you grovelling little buffoon, I might have preferred to have lived a few more months not least so that I could have had a fucking laugh at Liz Truss rather than turned up my toes! It’s a fucking documentary! I’d have ignored it and watched whatever was on Disney Plus or whatever the fuck! You think I’d actually rather die? I lived through the Spitting Image years, what the fuck do you think that was like? Stupid cunt!’

Finally, Rishi Sunak declared himself ‘absolutely shocked’ by the allegations levelled against Michelle Mone in the PPE scandal.

Really? Corruption and millions syphoned from the fucking purse in the Tory party, of all places? What else are you ‘absolutely shocked’ by? ‘I’m absolutely shocked at the Catholic faith of the Pope,’ says Sunak. ‘I’m absolutely shocked to learn of the amount of bearshit in the woods.’ ‘I’m absolutely shocked to discover that Piers Morgan is a colossal fucking cunt.’ ‘I’m absolutely shocked that an unscrupulous little weasel, richer than a submarine of Nazi gold but still given to lecturing the cash-strapped public on tightening their belts could become leader of the Conservative Party,’ says Sunak. ‘Absolutely shocked’! Call the fucking fire brigade, there’s a bloke here with his head wedged right up his own arse!

'Piss off and delete this number, you cheap blonde bra woman!' Oh dear. Baroness Mone's called and my wife picked up

8th December 2022

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

I DID moan rather about Baroness Mone during the pandemic, never giving me a minute’s peace and so on. It seemed my wife listened. ‘Are you the bra woman? Piss off.’

I gesture for her to hand me the phone. She responds with a gesture from the English vernacular tradition. ‘We all made money from the pandemic, you silly moo, but when you sell my husband bad PPE you’ll pay the price. He is the prime minister now.’

I’m unaccustomed to Akshata being proud of my achievements. She’s a great believer in keeping me humble. She continues, ‘No, it’s nothing to me either but I have real money. I do not get caught with my fingers in the till for a grubby £29 million like a shopgirl.

‘Take your nasty cheap knickers and bras and surgical gowns and stick them up your asshole, you publicity-hungry tramp. I hope they send you and your fat-neck husband to prison. Okay here is Rishi.’

Unsurprisingly Michelle has hung up. I am rather relieved. She reminds me of the women who’d shout at my father over the pharmacy counter about their HRT.

‘Bloody woman,’ says Akshata. ‘Pushy and stupid, a nasty combination. I bet that yacht of hers is upholstered in leopardskin.’

‘She was a nightmare,’ I agree, relieved. ‘It was day and night during the pandemic. Boris never says no to a woman, especially not a woman who has phone numbers of bra models.’

‘Yeah yeah,’ my wife says. She bores easily. It’s one of the things I respect most about her. ‘So you signed the cheques, like a halfwit. Can she drag you into this and ruin you?’

‘No,’ I reply, confident. ‘I was very careful. I never promised her anything on the calls, I never responded to the emails, I only sent the money when I was told to. My hands are clean.’

‘Pity,’ Akshata said. ‘I had hopes we could end this prime minister farce early. Ah well.’