The Archbishop of Canterbury says... farewell to that arsehole Boris Johnson

I AWAKE dangling from a spire atop Westminster Abbey by the belt loop of my trousers, my cassock over my head, my garters visible to all below as I slowly rotate.

I ruminate regretfully on my act of Christian charity in agreeing to take a job-lot of surplus altar wine off the hands of my Catholic counterpart. Winched away by helicopter, I reflect on the momentous event which prompted events – the resignation of Boris Johnson.

I fucking tell you, one of my clerics passed me a note with the news during my sermon at Morning Service. I read it, screamed ‘MOTHER MARY’S FANNY, THAT’S THE WAY TO START A FUCKING DAY!’, grabbed a bottle of Bollinger from a chilled bucket and chugged the cunt in one go! The only pity is they didn’t send blokes to Downing Street with a fucking rail to run him down to Victoria Embankment and dump him like a sack of crap in the Thames! The smirking, mis-shapen, revolting, Buntered-up lump of white elephant shite!

Of course the question now is who will replace Mr Johnson. The moderate Tom Tungenhat? The unknown quantity that is Ben Wallace? Liz Truss, the neo-Thatcherite? Penny Mordaunt? Or perhaps Steve Baker?

Who cares? Seriously, who gives a spunking gorilla’s toss? They’re all fucking Tories! Ergo they’re all twats! When you apply to join the party, you’re sent a form which says in bold letters ARE YOU A TWAT? If you tick ‘Yes’, come right on in, sit down on the front bench, cabinet places available, no talent required. If you tick ‘No’, fuck off and join the Lib Dems. It’s like Thora Hird once said: ‘You can be a cunt but not a Tory, but you can’t be a Tory and not a cunt.’

The Daily Mail and Daily Express have expressed regret at Mr Johnson’s departure. The Express thanked him for making Britain free again, while the Mail cried aloud in its headline ‘What The Hell Have They Done?’

And now Starmer’s off the fucking hook, Paul Dacre must be unleashing the Vagina Monologue to end all Vagina Monologues! Dearie me, Mail and Express readers, don’t let the stress of it all make you keel over off your golf club bar stools and die of a heart attack! Too late: every fucking day, a hundred or so respectable Nazi-sympathising Mail readers kick the bucket due to gin and blood pressure, and its sales sink further into the shitter of irrelevancy! Fewer and fewer people give a fuck about Myra Hindley or the 1970s union barons! You are nearing fucking extinction and it can’t come soon enough!

Finally, this week saw the notable rise of Nadhim Zahawi, appointed by Boris Johnson as new Chancellor of the Exchequer only to lead a delegation the following day urging the prime minister to resign immediately.

He’s a rancid, self-serving, greasy toad in human shape but the fucking balls on him, eh? Giant, brass fucking balls visible from fucking space! Take a job and then turn right round and tell your boss to go jump in the sea! Seriously, you should donate them to the fucking church after you die. Those balls of yours clanging together in the bell tower of Westminster Abbey would drown out the Red fucking Arrows!

What Boris Johnson's divorce speech was like, based on his resignation speech

GOOD afternoon family. It is clearly the will of your mother that she should be the new head of the household and effectively your new father.

I want to say to the many people who attended our wedding in 1993; thank you for that incredible turnout. And the reason I have fought so hard for this marriage is not just for myself, but because it was my obligation to them to deliver on that promise of eternal love.

Of course, I’m immensely proud of my achievements in this marriage. From fathering four wonderful children to writing for the Daily Telegraph to becoming an MP and mayor of London, I have gone from strength to strength.

In the last few days I’ve tried to persuade your mother that it would be eccentric to change spouses when we are delivering so much and have such a vast house in Islington, where I have still maintained a high libido after some pretty relentless sledging.

I regret not being more successful in those arguments, especially as I had an unflagging stonk-on, but the menopause is powerful and when it comes, it comes.

And, my friends, no wife is remotely indispensable. My brilliant and Darwinian system of fucking will produce another wife equally committed to remaining in the marriage through tough times.

To that new wife, whoever she may be, I say: I will give you as much support as I feel like. And to you, my family, I know many will be relieved and some disappointed. But them’s the breaks.

I want to thank all those who have helped me through my marriage – no names necessary, you know who you are, my honeys are the one group who never leak – and you, my children, who have had to put up with so much for so long.

Being married is an education in itself. In addition to the beauty of other wives, I’ve found so many women who throw themselves at you when they see the ring. So I know while things are dark for you now, my future without you is golden.

Thank you all very much.