The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the shite parade of Eurovision

WAKING in my own bed, calling for a cleric to fetch hither my breakfast of grilled kippers and my usual tincture of laudanum and absinthe, I enjoy my first Sunday morning off in years. 

I have been replaced, in a state experiment inspired by the success of Charles’s at the coronation, with an android doppelganger and am privileged to watch the AI Archbishop as he takes morning service at the Abbey.

Calamitously, midway through the reading from Judges, lightning strikes. His face melts away, his eyes glow and begin firing laser beams and the cassocked, mitred cyberman descends from the pulpit and rampages through the nave, fatally injuring those of the congregation unable to flee.

A partial success then, and with a few tweaks the robot will resume his duties next Sunday. Setting my tray aside, I peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that at the National Conservatism conference Douglas Murray remarked that just because the Germans had ‘mucked up’ nationalism did not mean that it should be prohibited in Britain.

Yank my fucking girdle till my dick turns blue, did you catch any of this goosestepping shite? The actual fucking Nat-Cs! Not so much the fucking 1922 Committee as the Munich 1923 committee! Never have so many straw men been torn apart, non-existent crises bemoaned, or wars in which only one fucking side is fighting waged! Every speaker there risked drowning in a rising tide of their own froth! I’ve never heard such rampant fascist bollocks! And of course, come the summer, all of these cunts will be rubbing shoulders with BBC staff and the shadow cabinet at the fucking Spectator garden party because all of this siegheilery is normal now!

The Eurovision Song Contest took place in Liverpool last Saturday with Sweden emerging as the victors with Loreen’s Tattoo.

Mary, Joseph and the fucking little brat, sure, Eurovision, I get it, Liverpool, yeah, Ukraine, yeah, woman from Ted Lasso, yeah, yeah, joy and inclusivity and all that shit, yeah but this piece of fucking chatbot-pop Eurovision-by-numbers, splatted-out turd of a song won? This cobbled-together bunch of Hi-NRG, power-ballad cliches? Some crap about eagles? I know fucking hymns that rocked harder than this! Talk about forgettable! I’d forgotten it the nanosecond it finished! I’d forgotten fucking Sweden existed, and happily so! If Cliff Richard heard this, he’d dig himself a fucking grave just so he could turn in it!

Anne Widdecombe has berated the poor for their need for basic food. If they do not have the money to pay for it, she said, they should not be able to have a cheese sandwich.

Fucking hell, if they can’t even have a fucking cheese sandwich thanks to the idiotic policies you cheered on like the cunt you are, what are they supposed to eat? Tablemats? Their pets? Your bullshit? How the fuck is this desiccated, ignorant, wizened, poisonous old bat from home counties hell allowed anywhere near a TV studio? Are you there so remotely intelligent commentators are balanced out by fucking morons? There is no fucking point to you, senile wasp!

Finally it seems that Manchester City, currently facing over 100 allegations of breaching financial rules, have reached the final of the Champions League.

Well, hip fucking hooray! How inspiring to see what you can do with infinite petrodollars and fuck you to the laws of the fucking game! Erling Haaland, have you seen the fucking state of him? A dead-eyed machine designed to crush human skulls like something out of fucking Skynet! I’m sure Noel Gallagher and his braying, thick mates are delirious about all of this but what’s the point of football right now? They should have a fucking Super League all right, consisting of Man City playing themselves every fucking week like the wankers they are!

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Secretly I'm a bit of a nerd. So I've hit Tokyo with an anime want-list like you wouldn’t believe

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, the Ultraman of prime ministers 

YOU’D never guess based on my confident, cool exterior, but secretly I’m a little bit nerdy. Specifically an otaku who loves anything anime who just landed in Tokyo. 

The cover is I’m here for the G7. Actually I’m here for a Pochita plushie, armfuls of Master-Grade Gunpla, the original 1980 Japanese-language Virus on Laserdisc, One-Piece underwear, Genshin Impact Nandroids and a life-size Totoro.

I’m pumping yen into a gachapon when the phone goes. ‘Konnichiwa?’ I answer. It’s Hunt. ‘Did you say something about tampons and beer?’ he asks.

‘Sorry?’ I say, gasping as a rare Kamen Rider rolls out. ‘Tampons and beer,’ Hunt insists. ‘You told people Britain was better off after Brexit because of cheap tampons and beer.’

‘Rings a bell,’ I admit, heading down to Mandarake where I’ve heard there are fifth-generation Naroto ironing covers in, distracted by the odd feeling I’m being watched. ‘They are cheap, aren’t they?’

‘No,’ Hunt replies. ‘Tampon and beer manfacturers alike kept the price the same and kept the profits. Also, did you say something about unlimited immigration in perpetuity? Suella’s smashing mirrors.’

But I hang up. Because I’ve got that feeling again. An shadowy figure, face hidden, just dodged behind a pillar. I thought it was merely a life-size Yu-Gi-Oh until it moved.

Nothing. Turning, I carry on browsing the Shin Godzilla waifus when I feel it again. A sensation of pure, destructive evil. An uncomprehending force that kills monarchs and withers nations.

Grabbing an authentic Bleach katana, I whirl around, ready to confront this bobbleheaded death touch yōkai and slay it where it stands. My banzai cry dies on my lips.

‘I was in the neighbourhood and thought we could have a word about future taxation policy vis-à-vis growth,’ says Liz Truss.