The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that flaccid cock Clarkson

WAKING in some sort of a manger I am aware of the presence of livestock, and three crowned figures stepping forward, bearing scented gifts.

A beam of light from above shines upon my countenance. Could it be that I have been reborn as the infant Jesus, sent to spread wisdom and salvation among mankind a second time? They could, I feel, do worse.

The truth alas is more prosaic: after a late evening with the Bishop of Lambeth, unable to find my way home, I broke into a school hall and bedded down in a cot behind a large curtain which rises to reveal the wise men are children, the livestock stuffed animals and staring at me aghast, rows of parents watching the school nativity.

Hoisting myself upright I offer a blessing, then repair to my chambers where I read that Jeremy Clarkson has insincerely apologised for wishing Meghan Markle stripped and pelted with excrement. Others have wondered if Jeremy Clarkson’s critics are unable to take a joke.

Mother Mary’s underused undercarriage, his critics can take a fucking joke. What they can’t take is a cunt! A gurgling, ironed-jeaned, self-satisfied, ignorant cunt, and a misogynistic menace to boot! It was a fucking Game Of Thrones fantasy, was it? Funny because my fantasy, also loosely based on Game Of Thrones, involves you being hoist by your greying fucking knackers 40 feet in the air by a dwarf, pelted with white wolf faeces and roasted alive by dragon fire! And every twat my age, or any other age for that matter, feels the same fucking way!

Rishi Sunak has defended the government’s policy on nurse’s pay, stating that is ‘reasonable’ and best for the country in the long term.

What’ll be best in the fucking long term is that you are run out of Downing Street, preferably on some sort of rail, to go down in history as the last ever fucking Conservative Prime Minister joining the fucking Liberals and the Whigs on the shitheap of terminal obsolescence! ‘Reasonable’? You’d slit your throat if you were reduced to living per week on what the average fucking nurse earns in a year, you shortarsed, moneysuckling little prick!

Cliff Richard is to appear alongside Philip Schofield and Holly Willoughby this Christmas in a special, festive edition of This Morning.

Seriously, Cliff, you? Still? What the fuck are you hanging on for? I mean, really, what’s the fucking point? How many more Wimbledons are you planning on infesting with your singalongs? What, are you gonna do a fucking Vera Lynn on us? Or are you in a race to outlive Keith Richards that you’re never gonna win? Your whole life has been one long waste of a fucking penis!

Finally, Tory MP Rebecca Pow has suggested that as a means of avoiding waste, people should iron old wrapping paper to reuse each Christmas.

There she is, folks, Rebecca fucking Pow, saving the planet one sheet of fucking paper at a time. With the massive wastage we’ll avoid by ironing last year’s wrapping, which of course we’ve all fucking kept, we won’t offset half the electricity used for the iron for which we’ll need a new coal mine to generate! Full of fucking bright ideas, aren’t you? Did you change your name from ‘Powell’ to ‘Pow’ to save the energy used typing the extra letters? Clueless fucking clothhead!

Six places I've been recognised naked, by Martin Lewis CBE

BEING Britain’s leading money saving expert isn’t easy, especially when you’re always getting recognised while stark bollock naked. It’s happened six times:

Locked out of my hotel room

There’s always someone who hasn’t collected their newspaper at 6am, so you can sneak out, peruse the headlines and replace it none the wiser. I did just this in the July heatwave, got disorientated, long and short of it I’m in the corridor nude with nothing but a Daily Express and an economics student walks past. ‘Morning Martin,’ he says.

On a mate’s stag do

Went to a stag do in Munich and rubbed some of the lads up the wrong way by converting Euros to sterling. I thought they’d want to know the cost. Well, normally it’s the stag who gets stripped and tied to a lamppost, but this time it was me. And who comes along but a bunch of pensioners who never miss Good Morning Britain.

In the shower at the leisure centre

Showering costs money with gas so high, so I perform my ablutions down the leisure centre. The full lather and soap. I’ve paid for it. But when I got accosted, still midway through a vigorous scrub, I had to explain why a current account’s a better bet than a cash ISA for ten minutes, cock out. I used up a whole hotel soap.

Tackling a burglar at 3am

I’m not short of cash myself, after a lifetime of shrewd decision-making, but I won’t let that make me a target. So when burglars broke in I tooled up and gave chase, fully nude because that’s how I sleep. I cornered one who recognised me and asked whether he should commit to a ten-year mortgage. Ran through options until the rozzers arrived.

Relaxing in a sauna

I like to get away, and I find Finland very relaxing because it’s cheaper than Norway. There, in a spa in the wilderness, I could sit in the buff and sweat my cares away unmonitored. Until I hear ‘fancy seeing you here!’, open my eyes and it’s only Angela fucking Rippon. What are the chances?

During my medical

Looking after your health is looking after your money. I get a full medical every year, but in a supreme piece of irony just as the GP was holding my gonads and asking me to cough, he suffered a massive heart attack. My balls were in his death grip. I shuffled, naked and carrying his body, to reception where ambulances, the police and fire crews were called. It took eight hours to free me. I sent a large bouquet to his funeral.