The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Elon twatting Musk

WAKING at four in the morning in a puddle of my own vomit following a late and convivial evening with theologian friends, I pick up my battered mitre.

I return to my quarters for an early breakfast of toast and hair of the dog. There, I read that the noted billionaire Elon Musk has purchased Twitter. He hopes to preserve ‘freedom of speech’ on the platform.

Christ’s stinking loincloth, it took me a fucking year to realise you were a real person and not a fucking Poundland aftershave brand and now this? END WORLD HUNGER, YOU CUNT! You’re sitting there like a fucking anus-faced goblin on a mountain of cash and you end up buying the world’s biggest fucking sewer because the stench of it isn’t fucking strong enough for your liking? Freedom of speech my fucking hemorrhoids, you wouldn’t know freedom of speech if it stabbed you in the scrotum with a Stanley knife, you’re just the world’s most atrocious, attention-seeking arsehole in perpetual need of a giant fucking nipple to suck on. END WORLD HUNGER!

Nadine Dorries was among those who sent a message of support to Angela Rayner following accusations that she had attempted to distract the Prime Minister in parliament by crossing and uncrossing her legs. Her message of support was identical, word for word, to that of Boris Johnson.

You know, as an archbishop, I come across a great many people from all walks of life. I have become, I like to think, conversant with the ways, the foibles of the human animal. Reflecting thus, I have come to the conclusion that Nadine Morris is, to paraphrase Thomas Aquinas, as thick as a bull elephant’s turd! Any normal person caught pulling the embarrassing bollocks you pull on a daily basis would have dug a giant fucking hole and thrown themselves in it out of sheer fucking mortification! But not you, eh, inebriated on your own fucking malicious idiocy and fuck-me-please sycophancy to that lump of cunt Johnson!

The Labour Party have warned in a leaflet that the Liberal Democrats plan to decriminalise drugs, a policy which would lead inevitably to the legalisation of drugs.

They are? Well, thanks for the tip-off, I’ll go fucking vote for them! A fucking 12-year-old schoolkid could out-debate you on the fucking hypocrisy of criminalising drugs while keeping booze legal but no, you keep fucking pawing at the flies of the imaginary Alf Garnett in your head you think you need to win over, trying to suck his wrinkled white cock!

Finally, I will be obliged to rewrite my sermon this weekend upon hearing the news that James Corden is to leave CBS’s The Late Late Show.

Great. Any chance of leaving the fucking solar system while you’re at it? Seems fucking weird to me that they can’t dredge up the remains of the Titanic from the bottom of the ocean but a colossal, revolting, semi-shaven fucking lump of kiss-up, kick-down, self-satisfied, voraciously talentless piggy-eyed, piggy-arsed deadweight like you can somehow rise to the fucking surface, rather than languish on the fucking bed of the sea of shit where you belong? Now stand up, let’s sing some fucking hymns then we can all piss off down the fucking pub!

I brought up Angela Rayner. He immediately said 'I would'

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

I’M NOT naive. I’m perfectly aware that my husband has a history. But I thought the Mail story was the fevered sexual imaginings of a frustrated hack until he confirmed it.

‘Angela Rayner?’ he said. ‘Definitely. Red hair, red politics, all the other red flags? I wouldn’t turn that down. Incendiary in bed. Christ.’

‘I thought you called her a sour-faced lefty cow?’ I said. ‘Who looks at you like you’re dogshit on her shoe, even though she’s a council estate slag and you’re prime minister?’

‘Well yes, but both can be true simultaneously,’ he said. ‘Anyway if it was ever on it’s right off now thanks to the bloody Mail. They cock-block me more than Michael fucking Gove.’

It hadn’t been the conversation I’d been expecting. I know that passion can flourish across political divides. After all, I’m a progressive firebrand who ended up in bed with an Old Etonian.

That’s different, because I’m actually humanising his free-market instincts and helping shape Britain into a forward-thinking 21st century nation, not just some bit of stuff. But still… Rayner?

‘Was it you who compared her to Basic Instinct?’ I asked. ‘Never seen it,’ he replied, pouring himself a Chablis. ‘But it is deliberate.’

‘Really?’ I said. ‘Mmm, for sure. She knows what she’s doing. Flashing those common pins. Red rag to a bull. Ruins my concentration. She’s heard I like a bit of rough.’

‘And… do you?’ I asked. ‘Bloody hell yes. Other extreme from my usual, but that’s the thrill. And I tell you what. She would as well.’

‘Lovely,’ I said, walking away without a word. Still, makes a change from worrying I’ll walk in to find him banging away at Dorries.