The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Kwasi cocking Kwarteng

RETURNING to consciousness face-down on the pavement just yards from the front door of Lambeth Palace, golden key in my outstretched hand, I reflect on just what a bender that was.

After a busy two weeks commemorating Her Majesty, I joined in sorrow with a delegation from the Little Sisters of the Poor and while Catholicism and I have our differences, I have a renewed respect for their capacity to imbibe spirituous liquor.

I gather myself and return to my chambers, where I learn that Kwasi Kwarteng has cut the top rate of income tax in an act of charity to 629,000 super-rich who will now be some £30 billion better off. It is the Chancellor’s belief this money will ‘trickle down’.

Christ’s cock on a rotating kebab skewer, there’s as much chance of that money trickling down to the poor as there is a fucking modicum of intelligence trickling down into Liz Truss’s skull! It’ll trickle fucking nowhere except to an offshore account! Is that what you were laughing about at the Abbey? ‘Hee hee, wait till they say the priceless twat’s trick I’ve got lined up for the fucking mini-budget!’ Jesus, if you were in the fire brigade and turned up to a fucking blaze, would your first thought be to direct the hoses at the nearby duckpond for a top-up? I’ll give you three weeks in office, you insane cunt!

The Labour Party conference is set to begin in Liverpool this Sunday. While the press officers of certain trade unions have been denied passes, reporters from the Sun newspaper have experienced no such inconvenience.

Great move there, Starmer. Read the fucking city, you perpetually-startled, dough-faced twat! Seriously, why the fuck did you choose Liverpool? It’s full of left-wingers, the people you’ve been fighting your entire pitiful time as party leader! It’s like Putin hosting a party conference in Khiv! You’re not fucking well liked there, you dead-eyed fucking toady! Last time you showed your face there you got an absolute bollocking from some old woman – you were lucky she didn’t drag you across her lap and spank your arse – and unless you’ve got security ten deep you’ll get worse this time, you fuckfaced streak of shite!

Liam Gallagher turned 50 years old this week, and pronounced himself ‘buzzing’ to still be here.

Liam, you’re not 50. You may have lived 50 fucking years, but you’re neither mature, reflective, or a little wiser with age. You’re fucking 13, hanging out down the precinct, monkeying around in a fucking kagoule like the slack-jawed, lairy, rickets-walking cunt that you are! 50! Fuck off!

Finally, Vladimir Putin has introduced ‘partial’ mobilisation in an attempt to improve the fortunes of his ‘special military operation’ in Ukraine.

You’ve fucking blown it, haven’t you, you inside-out-faced prick! You can only find your arse with both hands because it’s been handed to you on a fucking plate by Ukraine! I bet Luxembourg’s thinking it could take you after the shambles you’ve put up so far! You’ve got the world’s most useless army, equipment the military equivalent of broken fax machines in the age of the internet and a population that would rather live as fucking rodents in a neighbouring Baltic state than fight for whatever you think you’re doing, nobody knows or cares. The sooner you’re hanging by your fucking gonads in Red Square, the fucking better!

Chariots of Fire, Danger Zone, my own audiobook: Paul Hollywood's lovemaking playlist

DAYTIME baker, nighttime lothario, at both ends gentle yet firm with my hands. But when I throw a conquest onto the waterbed, what’s soundtracking our sexual odyssey? Read on:

Foreplay – A Smeg TR4110GR fan oven being pre-heated to 200c

We begin with the most erotic sound on earth: a fan oven. Gently heating to optimal bread-baking temperature. And as that whirring pervades the air, I begin to rise like a cottage loaf. It’s reflexive and magnificent.

Undressing – The Great British Bake-Off theme tune (scratch remix)

In case my partner, who is ideally between 20 and 35 years younger, has second thoughts the playlist segues straight into the GBBO theme tune to remind them why they’re doing this – I’m off the telly. The remix adds scratching and hip-hop beats. I slip my top off.

Striptease – You Can Leave Your Hat On by Tom Jones

Oh yeah, I strip alright. I’ve got a whole little routine that ends with me stark bollock naked with a Star Baker apron draped off my hard-on. It’s my own personal showstopper.

Foreplay – Chariots of Fire by Vangelis

I like to perform foreplay slowly, sensually and overdramatically. This music’s ideal. Gives the whole area a touch of British grit and pluck triumphing against the odds which it needs because foreplay’s for girls.

Penetration – Danger Zone by Kenny Loggins

As I go in for the kill I put myself in the shoes of Maverick, the Top Gun of the USAF, but the Maverick of baking. Sometimes I whisper ‘call me Maverick’. Once I wore Ray-Ban Aviators, but they steamed up like when you open an oven while making scones.

Climax – Sex On Fire by Kings of Leon

A song so sexy it has sex in the title, which is like my surname being Hollywood: obvious but impressive. I’m banging away, not thinking about durations or amounts, lost in the moment like a blind bake, doing it all by eye and feel and touch. Then I finish, which normally amounts to a heaped teaspoon.

Post-coital – Paul Hollywood: A Baker’s Life, the audiobook

While my exhausted lover falls sated into sleep, I lie awake contemplating the grubby acts I’ve just commited. To unwind, I like to think of how far I’ve come in life. So I stick on my own entire audiobook, listen to my own soothing tones and relax. There’s a cracking recipe for jam tarts.