WAKING in intensive care, following a WhatsApp challenge from His All Holiness Bartholomew I of Constantinople that I could read the Ryan Giggs poem to the end without hurling, I regret my naivety. 

Still, I made it to the seventh line before vomiting the contents of my stomach, a pint of bile and my stomach lining, which on reflection seems a moral victory. While recuperating I catch up on my periodicals where I learn that Boris Johnson has, during the cost of living crisis dominating the late days of his tenure, taken not one but two holidays.

Holy Christ’s raging fucking erection, if they cut your belly open it wouldn’t be fucking entrails that came tumbling out, it’d be a steaming, slithering mass of brazen fucking gall! Holiday? Holiday from fucking what? You fought tooth-and-nail to keep this job over the summer because you wanted to carry on being Prime Minister the way an eight-year-old boy plays at being a fucking engine driver. And then you spend it sprawled on your arse dozing off sangria, like the lazy, greedy, pathologically shameless, oblivious cessmonger of a cunt that you are! Nero fiddled while Rome burned; you couldn’t even be arsed to pick up the fucking instrument!

I read that Jacob Rees-Mogg has decreed that guest speakers at the Cabinet Office will have their social media accounts vetted to check whether they have ever criticised government policy.

Well, you ghastly human pinstripe, that’s me out for a fucking start! Just take a look at my last few sermons, including Concerning Ms Suella Braverman’s Being A Twisted Streak Of Diseased Pigshit, Reflections Upon Dominic Raab And What An Ocean-Going Horse’s Cock He Is and Touching Upon Why Liz Truss Should Dip Her Empty Head In A Fucking Woodchipper! Jacob Rees-Mogg: proof that fascism doesn’t come goosestepping in helmet and jackboots but wafting weedily in from an old fucking Beano cartoon in a top hat and with no fucking chin! 

Jeremy Clarkson has, as is his wont, has consoled those with poor A-level results not to worry, since he now drives expensive cars and holidays on a boat.

See, this is the thing with you, Clarkson – you actually think your life is some sort of fucking success! You actually fucking believe that. There you are, perched atop the totem pole of your wankdom, a tall pillar of ossified fucking spunk, universally derided except by other would-be Alpha-wankers, spouting verbal exhaust fumes and vapour trails into the fucking atmosphere and imagine that you have been of some fucking good in this world! As part of my ecclesiastical duties, I had the privilege of addressing a group of sixth formers at a South London Church of England school. I told them most solemnly: ‘Try your hardest at A-level because the last thing you want is to end up is being a thick, revolting, ironed-jeaned pollutant like Jeremy fucking Clarkson!

Finally, it seems that Amol Rajan has been appointed as presenter of University Challenge.

What is it with this fucking ubiquitous fucking creep? This arse-dwelling fucking hack? It’d be a fucking challenge to him to spell the word ‘university’ but here he fucking is, everywhere, like all three Dimblebys simultaneously! Never mind A-levels, Rajan is proof that if you suck corporate media cock relentlessly until your gag reflex vanishes and your tonsils atrophy, you too can be any cunt you fucking want to be!