The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Rebekah Vardy's new arsehole

WAKING in the gutter, my pillow an empty 1.5 litre bottle of Tesco Imperial Vodka, I surmise to my horror I have fallen back in time to the year 1985.

The streets with their gaudy shopfronts, the crowds in mullets and white socks, the Thatcher-era shame and desperation, all point to the same unavoidable conclusion until I spy town signage and realise I am simply in Bolton.

I hail a passing train and return to London, perusing the newspapers on my journey, where I read that Sir Keir Starmer has sacked a junior frontbencher for attending a picket line and stating that workers be given pay rises in line with inflation, contrary to Labour policy.

John the fucking Baptist’s severed cock on a plate, what the fuck? I mean, if Labour isn’t gonna back labour any more, any fucking chance of giving the name back? Seriously, if as head of the fucking Church of England I set up a Satanist temple in Scotland, I think people might be within their rights to say, ‘Mate, are you sure you’re in the right fucking job? On two counts?’ The trouble with you, Starmer, is you’ve got fucking focus group feedback dangling where your testicles should be! Grow a pair, you cunt!

The Commonwealth Games have commenced in Birmingham, with the opening ceremony extolling the virtues and heritage of Britain’s second city.

Oh for fuck’s sake. We’ve all been to Birmingham. It’s one gigantic fucking precinct! They only built Wolverhampton next door to give it something to look down on! More miles of canals than Venice and all of them full of Greggs wrappers, shopping trolleys and dead kittens in sacks! All anyone wants to do in Birmingham is get the fuck out of the place as fast as possible and you can’t even do that thanks to Spaghetti fucking Junction, which some drivers have been trying and failing to get off since 1972!

I broke off from my opening address to the congregation at midday mass to bring them the tidings that Rebekah Vardy’s libel case against Colleen Rooney had been dismissed. ‘Dearly beloved, you may roll in the aisles,’ I said.

Hahaha! Oh, slap me with Christ’s wet loincloth, let the fucking church bells ring loud and long! What a fucking weapons-grade, copper-bottomed, reference-quality honking moron of the first water Rebekah Vardy is! Your agent’s phone is to the North sea what the fucking monster is to Loch Ness, you realise? They’ll be running boat excursions for tourists to spot the fucker! Don’t leave it here. Even if your rat-faced husband has to keep playing longer than Stanley Matthews to pay your legal bills, please, have another fucking pop. This lawsuit is the only reason half of the people in this fascist toilet country have been carrying on fucking living! Appeal, I beg of you!

Finally Chris O’Shea, boss of British Gas owners Centrica, set to pocket millions in bonuses this year, has told customers struggling to pay their bills they are ‘amazing people’ who ‘make their own decisions as to what’s best for them’.

Mary pegging Joseph, could you be any more of a condescending cunt? ‘Amazing people’, yeah? I bet they’re just like any other bunch of fuckers signed up to a energy supplier: the decent, the boring, the dickish and the outright fucking pricks! Never mind your vacuous platitudes, instead of spunking on gold-plated luxury dog kennels, how about you and the rest of you insanely greedy hogs plough profits into bringing prices down? Because the way it’s fucking going, it’s gonna be cheaper to burn bundles of banknotes this winter than buy gas!

My crap 2021 wedding only happened to get that twat Cummings off the front pages. I'm owed this one

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

I AM owed a wedding. A proper wedding befitting a princess, which I effectively am, at a proper country house. Because that one last year was fucking shit.

It’s been an eventful year. Who even remembers Cummings doing his big dump on the Commons floor today? But at the time it was such a massive deal Big Dog came through the door and announced we were getting married.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I Zoomed Lulu Lytle about it today. She said that the custom elephant-shaped pavilion can be brought in for under £650k and Lord Brownlow’s sending her a cheque.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re getting married on Saturday. I need some positive publicity and you’re it. Gove’s biking a dress round. Be a good girl and don’t make a fuss.’

A fuss? I was fucking furious. But I saw the advantage in hitching quickly and sold it to myself as the ultimate PR move: what greater sacrifice can a girl make than to plight her troth for a Sunday Times front page?

Still the resentment burned. I was promised a proper wedding, like the Beckhams but elevated by six levels of class. I was promised 400 guests at Chequers. Then he fucked up Chequers.

‘You have pissed on my dreams,’ I told him, the night he quit. ‘The dreams of a beautiful woman who could have been anything she wanted. My wedding’s ruined. I might spend the rest of my days drinking prosecco in my wedding dress, like Miss Havisham.’

‘Christ,’ he said, six cans into the stout. ‘Making it all about you. Look, things fucked up. I’m the first to admit that. Let me put a call in to the Bamfords.’

‘I am not having dancing JCBs at my cunting wedding,’ I screamed. ‘Not that,’ he said. ‘Daylesford. They’ll let us borrow it if I promise him I’ll get Truss to cut all working hours regulations when she gets in.’

‘That,’ I said, ‘will do for a start.’ Because I’m not difficult. I just maintain standards.