The Archbishop of Canterbury on… Alexander Armstrong, at a food bank near you

WAKING up with a hangover whose throbbing is so intense it disrupts satnav systems across central London, I take a sip of water and reflect on another momentous week. 

I made an impromptu visit to the United States on Monday, there to be granted a special audience with Donald Trump. I had heard he is greatly influenced by the last person he spoke to and wondered if I could use my own influence to the good. 

He greeted me reverently in the Oval Office, and offered me by way of a present a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey, which I gratefully imbibed on the spot. I noted that he was wearing a MAGA cap. I asked him what this acronym stood for.

‘Make America Great Again,’ said the president, chest expanding proudly. I gazed at the curious orange fellow intently. ‘Don’t you mean, “Make Albania Great Again”, Mr President? Surely?’

‘Oh. Yes,’ he said, as if transfixed by my conviction. ‘Make Albania Great Again. As you say. A beautiful country. Let’s make it great.’

And so, I had him sit down and draft a non-reversible bill to donate $800 billion, funded by a windfall wealth tax, for the development and betterment of the country of Albania. As he signed it off, I presented him with a special scroll, confirming him as the Honorary Archbishop of Mar-a-Lago, which he can do what the fuck he likes with. 

With a wry chuckle I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Pointless presenter Alexander Armstrong has described himself as ‘angry and extremely poor’ due to Labour’s tax on private schools.

Fuck me with my dead Great Dane’s penis, do you have any sort of checking process between thinking things and them emerging from your mouth? ‘Extremely poor’? Had to resort to food banks and shoplifting baby formula, have you? It may have been a tad tongue-in-cheek, but it’s pretty fucking rich and self-pitying from someone who’s a household name BBC TV presenter! I bet your wages for Pointless have gone up every year, unlike the miserly prize money you dole out to the fucking contestants. And since when has anyone called ‘Xander’ been poor? Twat!

Health secretary Wes Streeting was in robust form in the House of Commons this week, jeering as follows at the Conservative opposition: ‘It must be so painful for them to see a Labour government doing the things they only ever talked about.’ Labour’s recent plans have included slashing benefits, reducing international aid and abolishing NHS England, with thousands of job losses.

Yeah, that’s some fucking boast right there! Do things a far-right government would have liked to have done but didn’t have the fucking nerve to! Keep the red flag flying, eh? You smarmy bunch of careerists might be impressing each other but you’re not impressing anyone else! I mean, cunts are gonna cunt but at least give us back the ‘Labour’ banner, eh? You’re like fucking climate denialists taking over the Green party to get some votes! Call yourselves the Illiberal Autocrats, or something!

Thangam Debonnaire, former Labour MP for Bristol Central until she was deposed by the Green Party candidate, has been appointed a life peer despite having previously vehemently denied she would be given any such role.

Don’t worry, we get the fucking message to the voters. I mean, Ian fucking Botham as a peer is bad enough but at least he wasn’t actively kicked out by the electorate like this hack specimen! The message is clear: fuck you, you smelly, clean water-loving, genocide-opposing pig people, you’re not ruining our appointments. If you don’t go with the candidates a handful of Labour cronies decided you should go with, we’ll put them in the House of Lords and there’s fuck all you can do about it! Because the last fucking thing we’re gonna do is abolish the House of Lords – whatever we’ve said in our two-faced fucking past!

Finally, Vladimir Putin is considering the terms of the proposed 30-day ceasefire in the conflict between Russia and Ukraine.

Yeah, sure, he’s definitely seriously considering it. It’s not like he’s one of the worst men in the world, which is why Donald Trump wants to be his girlfriend and suck his cock till his pouty lips turn blue! Fucking hell, I bet Tony Blair, Bono and Bob Geldof are ashamed to shit they were fighting to have their photos taken alongside this loathsome, defenestrating cunt 20 years ago! Well, they would be, except between them they haven’t got three atoms of shame to fucking rub together!

Help! I'm locked in the pantry on the set of Netflix's new Meghan Markle show

I DON’T know if anyone will ever read this. But if you do, PLEASE send help. I’m hiding in the pantry of the house Meghan pretends to live in. And I can’t get out.

To keep myself sane, I’m writing down my thoughts in a stylish leather-bound A5 recipe book with a fountain pen. For posterity. Or evidence. I know there’s a good chance I’ll never make it out of here alive.

Right now, the pantry is filled with the smell of what I think is a bubbling blackberry preserve on the stove. Meghan likes that on her yoghurt parfait. And what Meghan likes, Meghan gets. 

It’s daytime. I think. I’m not sure how many days have passed. Maybe five. I’m surviving on expensive bottled semi-sparkling water and a delicious range of high-end snacks. I’ve already put on three stone.

I only wandered in for a nosy around and the film crew shut me in. I left my phone on a stylish agave-coloured armchair so I can’t raise the alarm. The risk is just too high. On day one a production assistant referred to Meghan by her name instead of ‘The Duchess of Sussex’ and she went for her with a $150 Japanese chef’s knife. My best chance of surviving is staying hidden for the rest of the series.

Sorry. I must have nodded off. I hope I didn’t snore. The pantry walls are thin. I was roused by the telltale crunch of Meghan’s crudites. Always with the f**king crudites. And now the definite clink of coupe cocktail glasses. I check my watch. It’s barely 9am. There’s a pop. Ah, the peach nectar and champagne Bellinis – of course.

The muted murmurs from the kitchen sound like another boring anecdote from one of her ghastly hangers-on. Wait, now that stupid dog is sniffing around the door. This is all I need!

I try to find some meat to slip under the door. But everywhere you look it’s just vegetables. I scare it away with a kale chip.

Luckily it’s gone quiet. Wait. There’s a guy from Netflix here. He’s on the phone. I can just about make out what he’s saying. ‘We spent a hundred million dollars on watching her make halibut ceviche and jerk off with her asshole buddies? Jeez! I hope Harry’s sitcom goes down better than this. Of course she’s getting a second season. She could have any of us killed.’

Okay, he’s gone. I think the coast is clear. I should make a break for it. Hopefully I can grab a slice of that honey lemon layer cake before I get tackled and neutralised by her security staff. Wish me luck.

And tell my wife and kids I love them.