The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Prince pissing Charles

WAKING in an alley behind a kebab shop, robes covered in vomited meat, head pounding like Dutch gabba techno, I make a note not to join a sherry soiree with Aled Jones on an empty stomach.

I dust myself down, return to my chambers and peruse the latest periodicals. Therein I read that Prince Charles has vowed not to accept further cash donations for his charities following revelations that he has received donations of millions in suitcases and plastic bags.

Is that fucking right? And you won’t be receiving donations from a bloke in a mac standing in the shadows of a multi-storey car park either? Christ on a bacon barm, the shit you parasitic pricks pull! The ackers you rake in on dubious pretences! Even King John would have scratched his chin doubtfully at what you twats get up to! I used to think you were just some sorry, ugly little sod with a hard-on for old buildings who should have been quietly sectioned years ago for having conversations with potted plants but it turns out you’re a bung-taking 80s football managing dickhead!

Nadine Dorries has been the butt of a certain amount of ridicule for confusing Rugby League and Rugby Union in remarks about the England team’s 2003 World Cup triumph.

Haha, you Pinot Grigiot-addled featherhead, too right! It’s as good as the time Sir Billy Moore led England to victory against East Germany in the 1968 World FA Cup Final, with Sir Geoffrey Boycott scoring a two goal hat-trick! Look, any cunt can make a cock-up like that but it so happens the cunt who made this one is Minister for Culture and fucking Sport! It’s like me up there in the pulpit going on about the gospels according to Matthew, Martin, Lee and Jocasta! You are, without doubt, the thickest, nastiest, most risible, tipsiest, inept piece of work ever to land a fucking ministerial job and proof that, though I don’t broadcast it when I’m on duty, there is no fucking God!

One of my clerics took me aside during evensong to inform me that Novak Djokovic has made steady progress in the first week of Wimbledon.

Yeah? Well, don’t anyone forget what a death-dealing, anti-vaxx fucking leper you are! A walking, bullshit-spouting fucking disease vector! The plague’s on the rise again, thanks to arseholes like you! You shouldn’t be at Wimbledon. You shouldn’t be within five miles within any other human being. You should be dropped on a desert island with Right Said Fred, Ian Brown, Piers Corbyn and Van Morrison, forced to eat the corpse of the first one of you to fucking croak!

Finally, it seems that Boris Johnson considers the matter of Chris Pincher, the deputy chief whip caught drunkenly groping two men at a function, to be ‘settled’.

Saint Peter fucking a donkey, what the fuck does it take for anyone in this government of raving sex pests to face any consequences for anything? What would you actually get fired for? Being caught wanking on the roof of a moving car? Slapping the Duchess of Cambridge on the arse during a Royal funeral? Stealing a kidney from David Attenborough after spiking his fucking drink? The world’s worst cunts of all time, the fucking lot of you!

Why everyone's acting outraged I don't know. It's either suck him off or get pregnant

YOU can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. And you can’t deliver a revitalised, youthful, radical Downing Street without sucking dick.

Yes, I’m embarrassed my blowjob’s all over social media. But everyone knows with Boris you’ve got two choices: go down or get impregnated.

It was way too early for that. He was still married, and he’s got a dismal track record of making honest women of his out-of-wedlock babymammas. But, long-term, that blowjob worked out.

If it hadn’t been for my sacrifice he’d be nowhere near number 10. Without my injection of verve and relatability into his leadership camp he’d have been wiped up by Hunt.

And how could he stand there and attack Starmer as an Islington lawyer when he was married to one? The dead wood needed clearing. And so, selflessly, for the people of Britain, I knelt down and did what needed to be done.

Of course he loves getting his dick sucked. Big Dog’s never happier than when he’s getting all of the pleasure and doing none of the work. And his firm anti-contraception stance means it’s the only way you’re getting out unfertilised. Even that cow Arcuri knew that.

Obviously I’d have preferred Gavin Williamson not to walk in at that precise moment, but he’s such a bitchy little gossip I knew the news would soon be all over Parliament, clearing my route to the top. He got his knighthood, so who’s complaining?

In a very real way, the bold, powerful Britain we live in today started then, on that couch, with that ejaculation. If I hadn’t seized the initiative with both hands we might never have got our full Brexit. The people of this country owe me so much.

‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but how come I never get one these days?’ ‘Because we’ve got two fucking kids,’ I said.