The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the rock arseholery of Royal Blood

WAKING in my bedchamber with an unaccountable headache, I sweep away the empty bottles with a shattering swish of the duvet and attend immediately to my correspondence. 

A stained missive from ITV advances that, following the abrupt departure of one Pip Schofield from This Morning, as a man of piety and moral standing I was asked to be his replacement.

I have little memory of how it went, owing to an incautiously well-stocked green room, but I read phrases like ‘slurring and belligerent’, ‘indescribably foul invective’ and ‘fist-fighting the floor manager’ were used, and that Ms Willoughby was denounced as a painted whore.

However ratings for the edition were the highest in years and would I consider returning next week? Setting the letter aside, I read that beat rock combo Royal Blood stalked offstage, middle fingers aloft, at Radio 1’s Big Weekend, branding the crowd ‘pathetic’ for their lukewarm response to ‘who likes rock music?’

‘Who likes rock music?’ What sort of fucking question is that? It’s like asking ‘Who likes food?’ With the implication that anyone who thinks Royal Blood suck goats’ balls must therefore hate rock music since Royal Blood are its finest exponents, right? Fuck you, you pair of bratty, needy, tenth-rate dickheads! So fucking what if the crowd would rather watch roadies packing away stage gear than watch you cunts perform! The only reason they were there is to bag their place for when someone good came on! And ‘someone good’ in this case was fucking Lewis Capaldi!

It seems that on October 7th, Ashfield & Mansfield Conservatives proudly present dinner with Lee Anderson MP, Ben Bradley MP, and Jim Davidson. Tickets are £50 per person.

Roast my balls and dip them in Mötley Crüe’s signature hot sauce, I’d just as soon light my fucking farts with a burning £50 note then spend it on this cavalcade of copper-bottomed cunts! This is gonna make a 1930s Munich beer hall feel like a Ben Elton-hosted benefit gig for fucking Nicaragua! Three horrible bastard chortling about wokeness or whatever other imaginary shit gets their coked-up cholesterol-caked capillaries popping! I tell you what, whoever has the shit job of catering this night is gonna be pissing hard into that tureen of soup, I’d skip starters if I were you!

Andrew Tate, the influencer currently under house arrest for human trafficking, was taken to task for his misogynistic views by the BBC for 40 minutes this week.

Nice work, BBC. I guess that’s why they say ‘there’s no such thing as good publicity’, eh? Fucked this good and proper, didn’t you, in your amoral, tabloid hard-on for notoriety! All the fucking current affairs you could have spent 40 minutes going into, the things that seriously matter right now and you give this loathsome chunk of poisoned fucking shark meat a platform he’ll subsist on for fucking months! The only place a bulging prick like Tate should be interviewed is a windowless room in the basement of a Bucharest police station, not treated like he’s Princess fucking Diana!

Finally, Roma, managed by Jose Mourinho, were beaten by Spanish club Sevilla in the Europa Cup Final on Wednesday. After the match, Mourinho waited in the stadium car park to lambast referee Anthony Taylor and call him a disgrace.

Here’s a tip, Mourinho, you spoiled, bullying, whining, snitty streak of fucking pissy self-entitlement and rampant cuntitude. Here’s a tip to you and your teams – play some fucking football, rather than cheat, dive, writhe around in mock agony, and flock around the referee after you’ve skied the ball 20 yards over the barn demanding a sodding corner! There’s six-year-olds watching you saying ‘Chi è questo fucking bambino?’ The day of twats like you in football is done, Mourinho! Good fucking riddance!

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'I can't hand these notebooks to the inquiry,' I told Boris. 'They're pornography.' 'Nadine ghosted those bits,' he admits

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, the prime minister taking unprecedented legal action against his own public inquiry

‘AS lockdown fell across the country, the atmosphere in Downing Street was febrile, fertile and charged with lust,’ I read. ‘Good, eh?’ says Boris. 

‘These aren’t your notes from the time,’ I say. ‘I didn’t take any notes at the time,’ Boris says. ‘Yes you did,’ I say. ‘I was drawing tits,’ he says, ‘of which this is a rough translation.’

I’m in Moldova. He’s in Britain. We got the diaries yesterday and there’s no way we can hand them to Lady Hallett. ‘First time I’ve met a deadline in my life,’ he says. ‘With help.

‘Nadine did them bloody fast for doing them one-handed. Let her imagination fly free. You can’t actually swing on my cock, I regret to say, but suspend your disbelief and chapter 19’s one hell of a wank. Have you got to the bits with you in?’

Given that what I’ve seen of The Johnson Pandemic Diaries so far – to be published by HarperCollins, according to the first page – I’m not sure I want to be in it. So far I’ve read through three tender love scenes and nine hardcore sex scenes.

I’m a cosmopolitan gentleman. I’m familiar with the exploits of one Rupert Campbell-Black. At sixth-form I was called the Southampton Stallion. The words I have read in these diaries horrify me.

‘I never did that,’ I say. ‘I’m never alone in the same room with Raab.’ ‘Raab said you did,’ says Boris. ‘Or was that Hancock? Who is it he brands with ‘LOSER’ across their arse in chapter nine?

‘It was my idea to open with that famous ministerial office blowjob, as a prelude to the whole pandemic era of strictly marital blowjobs. That’s what I remember from lockdown anyway, that and the parties.’

‘I can’t give these to a public inquiry,’ I said. ‘Well that’s you as fucked as the heroine is in chapters 30-34 inclusive, isn’t it?’ Boris says.