The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Bono's arsehole poem

MY MIND much on the travails of Ukraine, I learn that U2’s Bono, once pictured posing cheerily with Vladimir Putin, has written a limerick-style verse about the situation in the country.

It commences: ‘Oh, Saint Patrick he drove out the snakes/With his prayers but that’s not all it takes’ and concludes ‘Ireland’s sorrow and pain/Is now the Ukraine/And Saint Patrick’s name now Zelensky’.

Fuck me till the Saints rise from the tombs and tell me to keep the fucking noise down, what boss-eyed, windy, misty-bollocked fucking verbiage is this? Are you sitting so high up there like a fucking goblin on your perch of fucking self-assurance that you think you can pull off raw shite like this and get a respectful round of applause? This is a fucking serious situation, we need rhymes from you thrown in like we need a fucking random napalm attack! What you need in your life is a bloke with a fucking stick to club you on the head once an hour, on the fucking hour, saying ‘YOU-ARE-A-TWAT!’

Excellent news as Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe has been released from Iran, where her prison sentence was extended thanks to the bumbling intervention of then-Foreign Minister Boris Johnson.

Tell you fucking what, Johnson, if you’ve a fucking functioning brain cell left underneath that blonde thatch of fucking cluelessness, you’ll fucking resist your natural fucking temptation to move in for a fucking photo-op with this woman and try and get in on the fucking glory. And if you do, I’d advise you to wear an armour-plated fucking jockstrap because she is well within her fucking rights to kick you squarely and repeatedly in the fucking bollocks till you squeal like the fucking lazy, selfish, incompetent fucking hog-boy you are, you life-ruining cunt!

It’s Red Nose Day, but Comic Relief’s bi-annual festival of charitable fun has been marred by the withdrawal of both Kylie Minogue and Zoe Ball due to COVID.

Jesus shit on me from a tree, is this fucking cavalcade of aging cock still going? Are kids who’d frankly be doing fucking maths still being forced to dress up like cunts to join in the annual compulsory fucking enthusiasm? Yep, we get it, we Brits are a wacky bunch who’d rather sit in a fucking bathtub of beans to raise £5 for charity than vote for fucking political parties who’d routinely raise taxes on the fucking rich so we didn’t have to lose our fucking Friday nights once every two years watching a fucking newsreader twerking! Fuck off! Comedy hasn’t fucking cured anything – let fucking Tragedy have a fucking turn! Tragic Relief: at least fucking David Walliams wouldn’t get a fucking look-in!

Finally, it seems that the Catholic church has banned a visit by a gay children’s author, Simon James Green, who had been due to speak and sign books on Monday at The John Fisher School in Purley, a voluntary-aided faith school overseen by the Catholic archdiocese of Southwark.

I tell you what, you have to be tough as fucking tits to be an Archbishop these days, with so much fucking sin and shit in the world and some of the fucking unholiest cunts who ever trod God’s green earth to fucking rebuke. But this is just acting the absolute fucking stupid-hatted twat! That’s left footers for you fucking all over! It’s the fucking 21st century! We’re all fucking using rubber johnnies, including most of your fucking Catholic flock! And we’ve bigger fish to fucking fry than an innocuous fucking children’s author, you bigoted bunch of shits! And the Catholic church, of all fucking institutions, fretting about the supposed abuse of fucking kids is like fucking Sweeney Todd worrying about fucking health and safety in the fucking meat pie business!

'I only went to the execution to be polite,' he says, coming back from Saudi with piss all

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady

HE looked shaken, I’ll give him that. He’d cadged a fag off Special Branch and was smoking it in the garden.

‘What’s this about?’ I said. ‘I thought it would be sports,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be some kind of, I don’t know, traditional Sunni sporting thing. Maybe with these falcons they’re all so bloody proud of.’

‘Instead,’ he continued, ‘they lead me to this arena and there’s three men kneeling down and, well, it turned out it wasn’t a sporting thing at all. Though it was very traditional and Sunni.’

Poor Big Dog. I lead him upstairs and make him a Bailey’s coffee. ‘And the oil?’ I prompt gently. After all, it’s hardly news that the Saudis like a bit of blood in their sand.

‘Completely forgot about it,’ he says, like a useless fucking dickhead. Well I – on the behalf of Rishi, whichever twat’s in energy, and the people of Britain – went bloody apeshit.

How do you forget fucking oil when you go to Saudi? All they’ve got’s oil. The only reason anyone lives in the arsing desert is the oil. It’s like going to the bar and forgetting to buy a fucking drink, which is another of the tight bastard’s tricks.

‘The beheadings threw me off,’ he said. ‘I only went along to be polite. You know what Arabs are like about hospitality. And, well, I couldn’t eat my partridge on the plane home. I’ve never seen anything like that, not even at Eton.’

‘And what are we going to do about keeping the lights on?’ I said. ‘Keeping cars running? All that shit that means another term in office, not out on our arses going cap-in-hand for after-dinner speaking cash?’ No answer. He hasn’t a clue.

I suppose on the bright side his newfound squeamishness will mean a definite no to Priti’s daily memos about bringing back the death penalty. Silver linings.