The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the gentlemanly aversions of Kevin cocking Keegan

WAKING with a head that feels somewhat like it has been stuffed forcibly with the corpse of Larry the Downing Street cat, I find myself harking back to my younger days. 

As a mere bishop, I appeared on a live broadcast of Songs of Praise with the late and beloved Thora Hird. We were filmed strolling amiably together, chatting lightly if not impiously about matters theological. Then, somehow, disagreement arose.

‘Take that back or I’ll tear off your testes with a clawhammer, you scrawny little cunt!’ said Thora, who was blessed with a Lancastrian gift for self-expression.

‘Fucking well make me, you four-eyed frump!’ I retorted. Upon which she threw herself at me and we ended up rolling down a hillock into a soggy patch of mud, where we wrestled for several minutes.

The series won a BAFTA as a result of the episode, which was the beginning of a beautiful relationship between myself and Thora, albeit punctuated by inevitable outbreaks of violence.

Sighing wistfully, I peruse a periodical where I read that ex-Formula 1 supremo Bernie Ecclestone has pleaded guilty to charges of tax fraud involving sums of over £400 million.

Great! Bang to fucking rights. So the parasitic, thieving little cunt goes to jail, right? Dumped in a cell in the Scrubs with a pot to piss in and a hulking, permanently priapic cellmate? Of course he fucking doesn’t. His lawyer tells the judge his client might not like it in jail so he gets a suspended sentence. Suspended my grey arse! If he’s gonna be fucking suspended, it should be by his bollocks from a fucking canal bridge where the homeless get to whack him with torn-off lengths of wood like a fucking pinata! Horrible little Blair-bribing prick!

Writers David Aaranovich and Matthew Goodwin are to stage an event asking the question ‘Is Britain run by a new, out-of-touch elite?’ Goodwin cited Match of the Day presenter Gary Lineker as an example of this new elite.

Grill my dead dog’s cock and serve it up in a brioche bun, what ravingly delusional bollocks is this? Gary Lineker discussing the latest VAR cock-up by day then donning a pinstripe suit, arriving at the Treasury at midnight and ordering cowed officials to impose tax rises on the super rich? Have your brains been removed and replaced by febrile lumps of cowshit? Are you a pair of overpraised, over-platformed cretins who shouldn’t be allowed anywhere more than one inch above floor level! Britain isn’t being governed by anyone at all, just milked by Tory parasites for fucking billions!

Ex-footballer Kevin Keegan has remarked that ‘lady footballers’ make him uncomfortable when commentating on men’s football matches.

Poor Kevin. You’re getting so very fucking old, aren’t you, little man? And things are changing in ways your Seventies permed head just can’t cope with? Lady footballers, eh? Lady footballers, with their lady parts, who should be doing lady things like nattering at the hairdressers and making you your dinner, shamelessly talking about men’s football. Any one of those lady footballers would have made a better fucking manager of the England team than you ever were, you clueless, emotional little tit!

Finally, it seems Father Ted writer Graham Linehan has lamented on his podcast that there is ‘no future for any white musicians’ at this point in time.

You’ve got to agree he’s got a fucking point. With black artists like Taylor Swift, Ed Sheeran, Adele, U2 and Coldplay ruling the fucking roost how’s a person of whiteness going to catch a break? And all those black record company executives, A&R people, and journalists make it even fucking harder You towering, transphobic pillar of twisted fucking toss! Are you on some sort of kamikaze mission to be deadly, stupidly wrong about everything or what? Has your arse hijacked your brain as the part of your body your mouth runs ideas by before you fucking open it? Linehanitis, the new disease of the hopelessly bigoted and deranged, spreading like fucking scrapie among the sheep dumb enough to fall for your ongoing grift on social media!

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Boris and Carrie for This Morning. You know it makes sense

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s first lady across the water

NEW This Morning hosts? One old and objectionable, the other young and blonde with a brilliant smile? I know just the couple. 

Works best if they’re married? And if the man blunderingly asks all the questions you shouldn’t but secretly want to, while the woman giggles prettily while possessing an incisive brain? 

They’d need a media background? And to be simultaneously loved and hated by the public? And to be approved of by the Daily Mail? How many ticks do you want me to put on one piece of fucking paper? 

‘Bollocks to that,’ says Big Dog. ‘I’m not getting up at the crack of dawn every morning.’ ‘It’s not on until ten,’ I say. ‘Exactly,’ he says. ‘They’d want me there at nine, half-nine at the latest, sober. Be worse than Downing Street.’ 

‘I don’t think we have a choice,’ I say, gently. ‘This isn’t about a million a year each or you undermining any goverment foolish enough to follow yours. This is about chemistry. Our chemistry. 

‘You’re far better than Schofield. You’re in Madeley territory. While I’m the upgrade to Holly the nation never knew it needed, less ravaged by time and with a keener intelligence. It’s the perfect synthesis of everything This Morning needs.’ 

‘I’m not doing any prep,’ he says. ‘Do you think Judy did, apart from gin?’ I reply. ‘It’s your perfect gig. Turn up, bluff through, piss off for lunch after two-and-a-half-hours and skip Fridays altogether.’ 

‘This is what we’ve been waiting for,’ I insist, ‘this is why we’ve turned down all the offers from GB News. This is how we become the national conversation again.’ 

‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘Shame about Holly. She was worth a bang.’