The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Platinum Party at the pissing Palace

I WAKE atop a barge of landfill en-route to Southend, having leapt from Westminster Bridge into the Thames in a dare with the Chief Rabbi after a convivial evening.

Dusting down my cassock, I invoke my religious authority to order the boat’s captain to change course and am soon back at my quarters. Switching on my wireless I learn that performers at the upcoming Platinum Party at the Palace include Queen, Diana Ross, Duran Duran, and Eurovision runner-up Sam Ryder.

Jesus H Cockstick, what a fucking farrago of grovelling geriatrics and worldbeating mediocrity this is gonna be! I’d rather eat my left fucking foot than sit through this spangly shower of shite! The only thing that’d made it worse is fucking Paul McCartney singing 1,600 fucking choruses of Hey Jude until 4.30am but even so, what kind of a docile cabbagebrain is gonna extract a morsel of fucking entertainment from this line-up from Bleeding Obvious Hell? I bet the fucking Queen would rather stare at fucking horses for six hours, and so would fucking I!

Policing minister Kit Malthouse has urged the UK constabulary to have no mercy on those caught shoplifting due to the cost of living crisis, stating that it is ‘old fashioned’ to believe that there is any link between food poverty and stealing food.

And here he fucking comes, trundling out like a fucking fat man in a Dickens novel, the unquestioned winner of Cunt Of The Week. Tell you what, though, while we’re dishing out fucking tips to the poor, here’s one – kill and roast a fucking Tory MP and have enough to feed a family of five for a fucking month! And it wouldn’t even cost you 30p because every last one of these fuckers is completely worthless!

As part of the Platinum Jubilee celebrations, eight towns are elevated to the status of cities – among them, Dunfermline, Wrexham and Milton Keynes, a town I once visited in my official capacity.

I’ll fucking say now what I told the ‘people’ of fucking Milton Keynes in my address then: “You shouldn’t even be a town, let along a fucking city. Move somewhere real, with real fucking cows, you sallow, soulless bunch of fucking arseholes! The state of you! You couldn’t even create your own fucking football team, you had to nick one. I don’t care how many pieces of fucking public art, you’ve got – and they’re all shit, by the way – I would rather live inside a giant cowpat in a field in Dewsbury than in the piss-ugly, plastic flytipped layby that is Milton Keynes! Don’t you turn my mic off, you officious little Nazi prick!”

Finally, it seems that the London Metropolitan Police have concluded their careful and thorough investigation into the Partygate scandal, after many weeks and at a cost of £460,000.

Fuck me with a ceremonial curly stick, how fucking much? What were you doing, making paper planes out of £20 notes and lobbing them out the windows? I’d have done it for £100,000, verdict as follows after careful and thorough consideration: Guilty As Fuck, every last fucking one of them, with the Blonde Fatberg sent down for life as the fucking ringleader! But then, this is the fucking Met who if they’re not randomly arresting black people or beating up women are a bunch of shiftless, clueless, hopeless fucking cunts!

I wanted Florence Pugh. I'd have taken Lily James. So who the f**k is this bitch they've got playing me?

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s first lady

ABSOLUTELY furious. Bouncing off the walls. They should not be able to get away with this. Some no-mark third-rate actress? Playing me?

They’ve got Ken fucking Branagh playing Big Dog. The greatest actor of his generation playing the greatest liar of his. But for me? Miss Ophelia pissing Lovibond Nobody.

‘She has. Been in. Nothing,’ I explained to him, when he asked who’d kicked dents in the fridge door. ‘Some shit sitcom. Post-credits in a Marvel movie. A crackhead prostitute in The Bill.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Reminds me, did you hear about the fines? Good news I thought. Putting pressure on the Met really worked out. Remind me to call Durham.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about your fucking fines,’ I replied. ‘The most glamorous first lady in British history and they give the role to some dues-earning cunt? It’s an insult.

‘I expected Florence. I deserved Florence. The cardigan-wearing cow’s nicked my style and flashed it all over LA. I’d have settled for either of the Lilys. If it was ginger minge from Game of Thrones I was prepared to be pissed off. But this?

‘Apart from anything else she’s two years older than me. And common as shit. And chubby. And she voted Corbyn.’

‘Let’s have a look at her,’ he said, opening a can of Pimms. ‘Mmm. See what you mean.’ He’s honest when it comes to women. ‘I would, but from behind. Is she in it much? Maybe that’s why they cast D-list.’

‘I fucking hope she’s in it,’ I snapped. ‘Otherwise it’s hardly accurate, is it? There’s only me keeping this administration on the rails. It should be the main bloody role but Branagh’s such an egotist.

‘There’s only one way Britain will ever know the real story,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to write the screenplay myself. It won’t be hard, I’m in PR. And I’ll insist on a casting veto.’

‘Yeah,’ he said, not listening. ‘Who’ve they got in for Dom? Whatsisface Cummerbund again? Anyway, did I mention they’ve let us off all those fines?’