The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the long-overdue castration of Russell cocking Brand

WAKING on cobbles, I realise I have just fainted and feel my vital organs shutting down one by one like lights in a towerblock. 

I remember that the previous evening, at the recommendation of my newly appointed personal physician, I went 16 hours without alcohol. My old physician would never have made such a reckless suggestion and now I see why.

My entire system is in shock at the deprivation and failing fast. Brushing aside offers of assistance from the public I cast my eye around for the holy light of an off licence but see none.

There is, however, a Catholic church on the opposite side of the road. I lurch towards it, burst through the doors, haul myself up the aisle and snatch from the hands of a priest the large goblet of wine he holds aloft.

‘Not His blood – mine!’ I snarl, and drain the chalice in a single draft. Feeling my system spark to life I hasten to my chambers, draining six pints of gin on the way, restoring me to rude health once more.

Vowing to bring in a new ruling making alcohol compulsory at C of E services, much as it is as Catholic ones, and musing that it may see an increase in buttocks on pews, I take a late breakfast and peruse a periodical.

Therein I learn that comedian Russell Brand has had grave and multiple allegations of sexual abuse levelled against him. Others believe he is subject to trial by media and the victim of a wide-ranging conspiracy.

Cut my cock off, microwave it and force me to eat it piping hot with maple syrup, what the fucking fuck? First up, calling the cunt ‘funny’ is a misnomer, since he’s about as funny as a Welsh mining disaster! You can fucking well judge him by a) everything he’s plausibly accused of having said and done, b) everything we know he’s said and done because there’s fucking footage of it and c) the professional bollocks-fountains who’ve come out in defence of him, Allison Pearson and Laurence Fox for starters! Sure, there was a fucking conspiracy because that’s how the brain-addled shitewits who keep Brand in a living think the world works! Throw the fucker in jail, swallow the key and never shit again!

Business secretary Kemi Badenoch defended government plans to water down their net zero commitments, accusing critics like Zac Goldsmith of being ‘too rich’ to understand the pain the measures inflicted.

Fuck’s sake, if it’s a crime now to be too rich in the Tory party then throw Rishi Sunak, who’s richer than a retired Nazi in his Sao Paulo case-grande, in the same cell as Russell Brand! Tell you what, not too many years down the fucking line, we’ll know all about the pain inflicted by doing fuck-all as the sea levels rise and the earth burns and no one gives a shit who’s rich or poor because a £50 note’s only good for wiping your dribbling dick with!

Rishi Sunak also defended his U-turn, pledging not to enact meat taxes, compulsory car sharing and or households to sort rubbish into seven different bins.

See all those little brown, claggy bits all over what you just said there, Sunak? That’s on account of what you said there having been pulled right out of your arse! The last refuge of a right-wing cunt – well, the first fucking refuge, now I think of it – is to make shit up that’s never happened and never will happen and work up fake outrage about it. What other non-existent policies are you swearing off? All underpants to be made of recyclable hemp and worn on the outside so the Caroline Lucas-led eco-police can check? Seven bins! Pick one and fucking throw yourself in it, you cunt! 

Finally, Rupert Murdoch is stepping down as Fox chairman, abandoning the struggle against ‘elites [who] have open contempt for those who are not members of their rarefied class… and who control the media agenda.’

Oh yeah, all hail the scrappy little underdog Murdoch, equipped with nothing but a global media empire to fight the tyrannical, elitist propaganda of the Islington Labour Party Bi-monthly Newsletter! Loathsome squamous specimen who increasingly offers physical proof that the world is run by reptiles! Stepping down? As your sons well know, since they’ve been longing for your death since the day they were born, the day you ‘step down’ is the day you’re lowered into the fucking grave! 

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My call to Lachlan Murdoch is apparently 47th in the queue. 'Top 50!' I mouth to my wife

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most long-term view-taking prime minister

THE moment I heard, I picked up the phone to offer my congratulations. And the three hours since have simply flown by. 

I was never a favourite of Rupert’s. He approved my promotion to chancellor, or course, otherwise it would never have been allowed, but he never took a shine to me. Or Liz. Or Boris. Or Theresa, or David. In fact he hasn’t liked any of us since Blair.

‘He doesn’t like anyone,’ says Akshata, breezing past. ‘He’s not even pleasant to my father. But you’re right, he didn’t like you especially.’

‘Why?’ I say, stung. ‘Surely not racism?’ ‘Ha,’ she replies, ‘as if. He leaves that to his editors. No, I think it’s the way you fail. It reminds him too much of his sons.’

‘45th in the queue now,’ I announce, letting the slight slide because I understand marriage is about listening to the heart not the words. ‘Anyway, what about my headlines this week?’

‘I’m certainly not chasing headlines or short-term popularity with my net zero policies, which are long-term decisions for a brighter future like it said on the podium,’ I continue assertively. ‘But did you see the headlines? And I hear the polls are good.’

‘Yes well old men like it when the world is ending,’ she snaps. ‘Makes them feel important. Worry about Lachlan now, not that he’s any good or he wouldn’t have been chosen. He’s shitting himself, the poor little lamb.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it,’ I say as the hold music – Mars, the Bringer of War from  Holst’s Planets Suite – continues. ‘Mm,’ Akshata says, ‘I just got off the phone with him.’