The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the Post Office bastards

WAKING with something of a morning head, possibly due to the cold snap, I also find myself projecting frequent plumes of brightly coloured vomit. I had partaken of shots. 

My private secretary enters and receives a receives a full consignment of my oral discharge unperturbed, wiping it away with a letter bearing the seal of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

‘Your Grace, exciting news!’ he says. ‘Saudi Arabia has put in a bid to buy out the Church of England and relocate it to Riyadh, lock stock and barrel. They’ll even dismantle and rebuild Westminster Abbey, because ‘they are exploring opportunities in faith-based spaces’.

‘They’ve offered five billion pounds. Of course, we’d have to tone down the Christianity and moral judgment but this is tremendous for our pastoral mission worldwide, surely?’

‘A most interesting proposal,’ I concede. ‘Let us put it to a higher authority. Let us close our eyes in prayer.’ Whereupon he does and I strike him with an empty rum bottle which shatters most pleasingly.

‘Th-thank you, Your Grace,’ he says, staggering out of my chambers. That matter dispatched, I read that former Post Office chief executive and Anglican priest Paula Vennells handed back her CBE after decades of false accusations against sub-postmasters.

Fuck me sideways, backwards and inside out, never mind sending back CBEs, the perpetrators of this need to be paraded from town to fucking town in sackcloth and shackles and pelted with rotten fruit and old Nokias! As head of the Church of England, alcoholic, atheist and 15 times winner of Most Swear Words in an Easter Address, it appalls me that a conscience-free twat like Vennells gets to wear a fucking dog collar!

Liam Gallagher and Stone Roses guitarist John Squire have joined forces to drop, to use the parlance, single Just Another Rainbow.

Yeah, it fucking dropped all right, dropped like a steaming turd out of a fat bull’s arse! Have you heard this mess? A pair of rasping, clueless refugees on a raft bolted together from Madchester and Britpop go through the motions to reproduce the lairy old grey trad bollocks that energised the most shiteating, gurning, monkey-dancing bunch of drug-addled twats of a generation! Fuck off with your random, raucous heap of rusty fucking shit, mutually wanked up by a pair of fucking chowderheads! The only thing conceivably worse than this would be a fucking Ian Brown-Noel Gallagher single!

Donald Trump is using his legal woes to boost his Presidential campaign. ‘TWICE in this final week, I will reportedly be forced off the campaign trail and into courtrooms for phony witch hunts’ he wrote in a fundraising email.

Tagnuts of Moses, you morally arthritic fascist fuck, will you just fuck off so that the world can fucking relax? Because if you get in, it’s over! And yes, we fucking know that America being one of the richest and stupidest countries in the world you’ll win despite a toxic Manhattan fatberg being fitter to run the country than you! For the love of God, just absolutely fuck right, right, right off!

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'Radio 4 tomorrow morning, Mr Starmer,' says my PA. Well that's put paid to my 11am orgy

I HAD no idea being leader of the opposition, with a date in Downing Street later this year, would mean cancelling so many sex parties. 

Take tomorrow. My nanny-state comments about children brushing their teeth have taken off because the right-wing media are too stupid to resist. Which means a press conference, which I’m fine with. But did it have to be right on top of my 11am orgy?

Do they think these things are easy to organise? Two lithe Brazilians, a butch Lithuanian and the most gorgeous nurse from a hospital visit in Harlow, all left disappointed. Paid off and sent home unpenetrated and unsatisfied while I’m hiding a stiffy behind a podium.

We’ve already had all the kerfuffle with the spring election date. You can’t trust Rishi so I’ve had to put together two major sex parties, one for early May and one for September, because I’m hardly going to win a landslide and not fuck anything that moves.

Yes this did allow me to theme them, so the spring one’s all morris dancers and buggery over hay bales and autumn is desire, dominance and degradation in a mock-up school, but still the effort and the cost is considerable and it can’t all fall on donors.

And it’s only going to get worse. Once I’m in power I’ll have a thousand demands on my time. I’ll be there, cock in a harness, buttocks bared, anticipating a vicious stroke of the cane and suddenly there’s a energy crisis and my ejaculation moves down the priority list.

It’s not sex. That I can have any time, and with anybody. It’s the theatrical arena of desire created by any occasion with four or more nude participants that I’ll miss.

‘We’ve all had to make sacrifices, Sir Keir,’ says Angela, and I know she understands. She’s single because Tarry was spending every night gimping. It got so he didn’t feel himself without it.

‘Just once I’d like to lie back, oiled and ready, while a Thai trapeze artist is lowered from the ceiling to spin on my dick without being interrupted,’ I sighed.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to wait until after Laura Kuenssberg on Sunday.’