WAKING in a walk-in refrigerator, having mislaid my hotel keys, the hotel’s name and the name of the city I am currently in, I am joined by a visitor. 

Bewilderingly, it is none other than Boris Johnson who has ducked into the facility to avoid a team from Sky News asking pointedly about his income.

The insulation of our safe harbour protects those outside from the tone of my remonstrations, which swiftly become colourful and conclude with my gartered leg helping the former prime minister to gather his courage and re-enter the media fray, at high speed and in disarray.

After straightening my cassock I step out, deliver a keynote speech at an ecclesiastical conference, and on the train home peruse my periodicals where I learn that Rishi Sunak is under fire for not wearing a seatbelt and travelling excessively by private plane.

Christ’s donkey’s liquefied shit glugged in one from the Holy fucking Grail, there are 1950s little green aliens with more fucking idea about how life on earth works than you, aren’t they? I bet you didn’t wear a seat belt because you don’t actually deign to do anything so plebeian as travel by car! Do you usually you take a private jet from 10 Downing Street to the Houses of Parliament, asking the pilot to circle London a few times because you can’t bear the prospect of being roasted at PMQs and you wanna get there as late as possible? Time after time with this fucking weirdo shit, you tiny pop-eyed prick! 

Sir Keir Starmer suggested that under NHS reform plans patients with internal bleeding could self-refer for care rather than see a GP. He also suggested that the Met change their name.

‘Internal bleeding’? You actually said this, you pitiful, piss-faced fucking poltroon? As you were doubtless fucking reminded by the avalanche of expert opinion decrying you for the idiot that you are, if you have internal bleeding get to A&E sharpish to save your innards from falling out of your fucking arse! No one in your team pointed this out to you? These are fucking sub-Trussian levels of risible fucking incompetence! As for the Met changing its name, yeah, that’d solve everything. Meanwhile, Gary Glitter could get his career back on track by naming himself Barry Blitter, eh? 

Journalist Isobel Oakeshott responded to the resignation of New Zealand’s Jacinda Ardern with ‘good riddance’, accusing Ardern of forbidding families from seeing each other without reason.

Yeah, that’s right. That fucking bitch. She just hated people meeting up, lefty that she was. All those thousands of lives she saved but what was the fucking point if those lives were going to be spent indoors for a few months? Better to let a few hundred thousand strangers die than have a single one of your individual liberties curtailed. You are some fucking piece of work, Oakeshit! Ardern resigns because she’s fed up of being harassed, while your boy Johnson still fancies himself as a leader on the world stage despite the slimy, bloody, stinking fucking trail of lies, incompetence, corruption and death he leaves in his wake! It’s a sick world but unfortunately there’s no fucking vaccine against trolling arseholes like you!

Finally, 2023 sees the 50th anniversary of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side Of The Moon, with an anniversary box set announced this week.

Holy fucking cow’s arse, 50 fucking years pass and we still can’t escape this tedious lump of stereophonic shagpile! Carpeted wall to wall with some of the most ponderously fucking facile bilge ever laid down on vinyl. Ooh, time does pass, doesn’t it? Where does it all fucking go? Let’s have a clock in the background, to help us meditate! Money? There’s another one. Who could match the genius of using a cash register effect to satirise money, other than the fucking writers of the theme tune of Are You Being Served? And mocking people’s obsession with cash always rings true coming from hippies rolling in it! Fuck off, you turgid cunts!