The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the long-awaited return of Liz f**king Truss

WAKING in a field, find myself in the position so terribly endured by our Lord Christ; propped against a wooden post, my arms to either side across a horizontal beam of wood.

I cry out, as did the tormented Jesus, to the Almighty Father in confusion before remembering that after an evening in a Cotswold pub with fellow clergymen, an abstract theological debate sadly and predictably came to blows.

Making good my escape from the constabulary across difficult rural terrain, I spotted a scarecrow, switched clothing with him, tousled my hair and arranged myself in his place to watch the unsuspecting officers rush past before greying out until morning.

Retrieving my cassock I head home, where I read that former prime minister Liz Truss plans a return to the political front line.

Christ’s badly soiled loincloth on a golden crozier, are you shitting me? Truss? A fucking comeback? That’s Harold Shipman toying with a return to the fucking NHS! Or the Captain of the Titanic putting himself forward for a fucking Arctic cruise! Or Dracula applying to become a fucking blood donor! What goes on in that hamster’s wheel of a fucking brain of hers? You basically owe everyone in Britain a grand each! You’re lucky not to have been put in a giant fucking catapult and sent arcing into the fucking sun, you impervious, swivel-eyed, ruinous shithead! 

Andrew Bridgen, the Conservative MP found guilty of a breach of parliamentary standards and described by a High Court judge as having ‘lied under oath and behaved in an abusive, arrogant and aggressive manner’ has concerns about the COVID vaccine, whose devastating, concealed after-effects he believes warrants an urgent inquiry.

When I heard the news on the radio that they’d developed a vaccine for this fucking virus, I was sitting in the bath. And when I leapt out of that bath and ran nude and rejoicing down the streets of Westminster, I wasn’t the only one! Hundreds of us, bollock naked, dancing in the fucking fountains of Trafalgar Square! It never occurred to me that there would be pea-brained, medievalist morons who were against the bastard! It’s such a fucking shame there isn’t a way of injecting braincells into the heads of thick twats like you, though we’d need a syringe the size of a fucking cruise missile! 

Daily Mail columnist Sarah Vine has berated teachers for taking industrial action, describing the UK as divided between ‘silent strivers and noisy strikers’.

Mother Mary’s wet fart, ‘silent strivers’? Is that what you think you are? I think one of the conditions of being silent is, you know, shutting the fuck up once in a while? Which you never fucking do, you bleating, self-pitying piece of twat, shrieking away on your giant fucking perch like some pampered domesticated vulture! You don’t know the first fucking thing about work! You wouldn’t last a fucking morning in a secondary modern, not least thanks to the almighty balls-up your moron ex-husband made of the fucking educational system! 

Finally, this weekend sees the beginning of the annual Rugby Union Six Nations tournament.

Fuck. No sooner have I sweated till midnight to complete my shitting tax return, then this lumpen arsefest gets fucking dumped on us. Out of the frying pan, into the fucking fire! A game as tediously oafish as it is incomprehensible! Show me a Rugby Union fan and I’ll show you a cunt! A cunt who pours lager over his fucking head rather than into his fucking mouth because that would stop them a) breathing or b) braying some cherished song about murdering women or some such shit for one fucking second! I hope every last fucking player on those pitches gets kicked so hard in the bollocks they’re forever prevented from breeding more meatheads in their own image and this game dies out like the fucking dodo! 

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Firm, fair, magnetically attractive: the Dominic Raab I know, by Rishi Sunak with Dominic Raab

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

‘“I’M reading a lot in the media about a man I don’t recognise. A bully, a boor, a petty tyrant. But this cannot be my friend Dominic Raab.” That kind of shit,’ Raab confirms. 

He’s in my office with one of his mates watching the door ‘to make sure none of Truss’s fucking lot’ interrupt us, which I find powerfully reassuring and not at all intimidating. 

Heartened, I carry on where he left off: ‘The Dominic Raab I am proud to call a friend and colleague is a gentleman. Polite to women, deferential to his elders, always open to suggestions from his dedicated team.’ ‘Fuck them,’ Dom says. ‘Don’t write that down.’ 

‘I’m not really sure this works,’ I venture carefully, as Dom’s friend appears to nasally ingest a small amount of medicine from a corner of his debit card. ‘Who are we trying to convince? The lawyer?’ 

‘Because well, lawyers, they’re not really open to being sweet-talked when they’ve got eight formal complaints and multiple witnesses.’ ‘Be a lot more if we hadn’t had words with a few,’ Dom says. 

‘And I’m not fucking resigning. Put that in your glowing testimonial, actually don’t. Just because Nadhim pissed off quietly doesn’t mean I will. Priti survived and she used a spad as a human dartboard. My cruelty’s more psychological.’ 

‘So we’re writing this for…?’ ‘You’re writing this,’ Dom says, leaning over the desk, forehead vein pulsing, ‘so when he comes out with his little report we can hand him something. And tucked in the pages will be either £100K or a death threat. Not sure which.’ 

‘Marvellous,’ I say, after letting out a short, involuntary cry which I effortlessly disguise as a high cough. ‘Well, should carry on. Mr Raab is courteous, gentle and never loses his temper, even when provoked.’ 

‘Are you making me sound like a poof?’ Dom asks.