The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the vile emissions of Chris cocking Martin

9th June 2023

WAKING up in Lambeth prison, my customary Friday berth, I slake the thirst I have built up by drinking a bucket of my own urine in one draught.

Uncertain of what charge I have been detained upon this week, I totter over to the desk sergeant, with whom I am on familiar terms.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” he says, genially. “I hope you slept well. I suspect your knee must be sore, what with the force you applied it with to three of my officers’ groins while resisting arrest,” he chuckles indulgently.

“What was the nature of the charge filed?” I wonder. “Pissing in Gloria Hunniford’s handbag,” he replies. Ah. I was worried it might be something major. Ms Hunniford and I have history.

Let off with my customary caution, I return to my chambers, where I read that Rishi Sunak has visited President Biden to cement the ‘special relationship’.

Marinade my balls in fortified cockjuice, ‘special relationship’? It’s not nineteen-forty-fucking-five! The relationship is as about as special and equal as the one between Long John Silver and his fucking parrot! We all saw the photos of you in that big chair, legs dangling like Dennis Waterman in that shit Little Britain sketch! It symbolises what a busted-down, desperate runt of a country we are that we’re run by one! Mind you, Starmer’s pretty much the same fucking height!

Donald Trump faces further legal problems, after being charged with illegal retention of classified documents. ‘I AM AN INNOCENT MAN!’ thundered Trump.

You know, in a fucking way you are an innocent fucking man. Innocent as in cretin, halfwit, chowderhead, peabrain, ignoramus, lunkhead, schnook, numbskull fuckwit! The reason you’re popular is that the milllions upon millions of cretins, halfwits, chowderheads, peabrains, ignoramuses, lunkheads, schnooks, numbskulls and fuckwits who linger like undigested red meat in the intestines of the American body politic have someone they can regard as their fucking intellectual equal! You are the moron’s moron! The cunt’s cunt! And, thank Christ, the loser’s fucking loser!

West Ham United won their first trophy in 43 years, prevailing over Italian club Fiorentina to win the Europa Conference League title.

Now there’s a inspiring story, eh? Here’s what you can do when the state hands you the Olympic stadium for fuck-all, with nothing but the proceeds of a fucking half billion pound porn empire to fund you! Still, enjoy it, you happy fucking Hammers, because the next time you win a trophy – the Anusol Cup against fucking Doncaster in 2066 – Norfolk’ll be an undersea theme park, Prince William will be slumped morosely on the throne, and we’ll still be at war Russians led by the head of Vladimir Putin in a fucking jar!

Finally, Coldplay’s Music Of The Spheres tour is their most ecologically sustainable to date, producing 47 per cent less CO2 than their previous stadium tour in 2016-17.

You know what would a good way to get that figure to zero emissions? Stop fucking touring! Stay the fuck at home, strumming your fucking anodyne, homeopathically insipid, desperately nondescript, plodding, wan, cod-Radiohead bilge to your pet goldfish! You may have cut down your fucking emissions but that’s still the equivalent of about 10,000 cows farting directly into the ozone layer! That’s to say nothing to the collective psychic stress of knowing that you cunts continue to hover over the fucking globe, blocking out joy and drizzling quiet misery on our lives with your relentless, enduring mediocrity!

'I get it, I get it,' says Biden, smiling broadly. 'You're not Rashee Sanook! You yourself are the AI!'

8th June 2023

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most Turing-tested prime minister

I WAS expounding for the third time on Britain’s readiness to become the world’s AI hub when Biden says, ‘Oh, I get what’s going on here. You’re a goddamned robot!’

‘No, no,’ I say, breaking into an authenticating sweat, ‘I am the real Rishi Sunak. I’m just very, very keen on the possibilities of artificial intelligence.’ ‘Hmm,’ he says, settling into his chair.

‘Now I like the sound of AI,’ he continued, ‘and I like that it has two of the letters of IRA. Means you can trust it. You I’m not so sure. Can we get this guy to do a whatchacallit? With the bridges on the computer?’

‘Mr President?’ says an aide. ‘Where he recognises bicycles.’ says Biden. ‘That’s a Chat GTA, ain’t it? ‘A Captcha? No, we have confirmation of a heartbeat, sir.’ ‘Then why’s he like that?’

The White House is rather rendolent of an assisted living facility, or care home as Britain calls them, complete with dangling alarm cords and a walk-in marble bath. I can sense naptime is approaching.

‘About AI-’ I say before I’m cut off. ‘Problem is Britain,’ he says, ‘and intelligence. And recent issues thereof.’

‘To be the global leader in AI development and AI regulation, you need to be intelligent. Damn smart. Stable, too. Your country just had a prime minister like the captain of Titanic, and you think you’re smart enough?

‘Now if you are a, uh, a mechanism of some kind that is real clever. If you can prove to my people you’re an AI I’ll accept your credentials and Britain gets to be the hub. If you ain’t? No deal.’

‘What do you say?’ he said, hand outstretched. From behind a frozen grin I prepare myself to deliberately fail a Captcha.