WAKING up slumped over the top of the railings at Buckingham Palace, I blearily recall visiting King Charles to let him know I would not be attending his coronation as I was working the next morning and fancied having Saturday off.

‘You’re the Archbishop of Canterbury, you have to be there,’ spluttered Charles. ‘Attendance isn’t mandatory, is it?’ I said. ‘Your daughter-in-law’s not coming, is she?’

‘That’s different,’ he replied. ‘Look here, is there any way to change your mind?’ Upon which he instructed a footman to fetch up a case of vintage Chateauneuf du Pape from the cellars. After six bottles, I acquiesced to the Charles’ drunken, desperate, grovelling request out of pity. 

It being dead of night, and Charles having fallen asleep in his own piss, I let myself out of the Palace, making for the railings and successfully shinning up them, at which point I must have dozed off. 

Winched to safety next morning by a fire crew, I strode back to my chambers to peruse the periodicals. The Spectator magazine has published a cover story about the ‘new elites’, depicting Just Stop Oil protestors and the like in aristocratic garb.

Castrate me then serve me a dish of bollocks on toast, if Victorian fucking London had had as much gaslighting as this article, it’d have been visible from fucking space! Our new overlords aren’t the people with all the fucking power, money and media ownership but Earl Crusty of Smellington and his best fucking mate the Duke of Dogstring! Do you people actually believe this product of an incontinent horse’s arse? Because if you do, I suggest you visit a place you may not have been to lately. It’s called ‘the real world’, you far-right fucks! 

Meanwhile, the journalist Petronella Wyatt has argued that if golliwogs are banned, then it will be teddy bears next, as they are named after Teddy Roosevelt, deemed by some to be insufficiently left-wing. Surely it won’t be long, she reasons, before the police are called to confiscate our teddy bears.

Jesus H Cock, this fucking golliwogs business has sent some of you people round the fucking bend, hasn’t it? Teddy bears? Sure, and after that they’ll be seizing our rubber ducks, because ‘duck’ rhymes with ‘fuck’ and it breaks the obscenity laws! Tell you what, since nothing is offensive or racist except in the minds of the do-gooders, I’ll turn up at the coronation with a huge great fucking swastika on my mitre. See how that goes down with the fucking Daily Telegraph, eh?

The Dalai Lama has been in hot water this week, after footage emerged of him inviting a boy to ‘suck my tongue’. 

Fuuucccking hell! I mean I know he’s the opposition and all that, but mate, snogging a fucking small boy? Fucking gross. As someone who’s been doing this shit for years, the first rule of spiritual leadership is don’t ask any of them – especially the kids – to suck any part of your fucking body. Your tongue, your finger, your cock, whatever, capiche? You’re the Dalai fucking Lama, not a 1970s Top Of The Pops presenter.

Finally, there has been upset at an incident in last weekend’s fixture between Liverpool FC and Arsenal FC in which the linesman, one Constantine Hatzidakis, appeared to elbow Liverpool player Andy Robertson in the face.

Hahaha, is this the best fucking thing that’s happened anywhere this year, or what? And it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving, shithousing little twat than Andy Robertson! I’m fucking all for it! Match officials dishing some out to whiny footballers, preferably when they’re least expecting it! Elbows, right-handers, nuttings, knees to the bollocks – smashing. And when they’re done with the players they can leap over the hoardings and have a go at the fucking fans! These are the fucking scenes we want to see, eh?