The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the Sue sodding Grey report

GAINING consciousness in a skip, having failed to reach my chambers after a wine-drinking contest with Cardinal Nichols turned ugly, I urinate for a full 22 minutes then head home.

Taking up a news periodical, I note that prime minister Boris Johnson has been ‘humbled’ by Partygate revelations but has done nothing wrong and feels it is time to move on.

Yeah, I fucking bet you want to move on, you lying lump of cuntspaff! Leave your mess, let some peasant clean it up, move on to make the next one! Boris Johnson goes on the piss before his weekly meeting with the Queen, projectile vomits in her face, has learned lessons and now moves on. Boris Johnson sets fire to the trousers of a waiter as he’s bending over to pick up a thrown fork, makes remorseful face, moves on. Boris Johnson drops his trousers and has a wank while visiting a children’s school in Didcot, says he broke no laws, moves on. Boris Johnson fucks a dead penguin, claims she ambushed his dick, moves on. It never fucking ends with you, does it, you pelican-faced fucking sack of baboon’s semen!

I was alerted by one of my minions to switch on the television set to watch last week’s Panorama as it was likely to be so explosive as to bring down the Prime Minister. Indeed, Laura Kuenssberg pulled no punches as she described Boris Johnson as the ‘most gifted politician of his generation’.

Holy Mary Magdalene’s fucking silver dildo, that’s fucking sticking it to him, isn’t it? Johnson must have shat himself with relief when he realised you were presenting this, only for you to come tumbling out from his fucking arsecheeks and give him a ‘Cooeee!’ The fucking stenographer-in-chief, first in her fucking sixth-form in taking down dictation! Most gifted politician of his generation, my squamous scrotum! Even you must have blanched a bit when he read that to you down the fucking phone but you went with it all the same, you shower of sycophantic shite!

The singer Bob Dylan, famous for his folk and protest songs, turned 81 last week. In light of this, I was asked to write a piece for the Church Gazette, reflecting on the longevity of this noted musician. Here is a short extract.

Brazilian-wax my scraggy arse, has any one fucking man been responsible for a bigger mountain of horseshit than Bob fucking Dylan? If he were a busker outside Tottenham Court Road station, you’d take his fucking cap and pocket the 7p he’d made as fucking compensation for the five seconds you were forced to endure his voice like piss from a cracked jug! As for your doggerel lyrics, ‘Jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule’? No they don’t! What the fuck are you on about? You try hanging binoculars on a mule and they’d kick you in the bollocks! This is the shit I’m talking about! You’re just lucky you were born into a generation of acid-fried, gullible fucking airheads because any other era you’d have been laughed into the sea for the talentless cunt you are!

Finally, following a tragic bereavement in the family of one of my parishioners, I was asked by my secretary if I might pass on a handwritten message to her, offering my thoughts and prayers.

You know what? No. I’ve heard those words about a hundred times this week and let me tell you, right from the fucking top, thoughts and prayers have no fucking effect whatsoever. If they did, the world wouldn’t be one big bloody ocean of shit, would it? I mean thoughts, what does that even mean? And prayers, well, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to nudge the fucking man upstairs and let me tell you, you might as well throw your money down a well as try to get Him involved. Between you and me, it’s an absolute load of bollocks but it’s my job. Meanwhile, fuck your thoughts and fuck your prayers, do something that actually fucking works!

Nothing gets him hornier than when he gets away with something. So I'm not there

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

HE’LL come in angry. Hit the Zinfandel. Mutter to himself. Start laughing. Then, because he’s got away with it again, he gets the raging horn. That’s why I’m on holiday.

He was in the opposite fucking mood before we left. An apology takes a good run-up for him. If he’s not careful he’ll start lying again mid-way through, or drop in a gag.

It was only me that stopped him using ‘Sir Beer Korma’ in his apology to the House. ‘It’s fucking gold,’ he said. ‘Rishi says it’s Peter Kay standard and he’s from Yorkshire.’

‘Not until PMQs,’ I said. ‘First do contrite, humbled, newly sober. Not after-dinner at the Spectator’s Anti-Semite of the Year awards.’ I’m in PR, for fuck’s sake. I’m a genius at this stuff.

But his mood’ll darken. And he knew he had got to apologise to the staff – we saw the report a week ago – so felt entirely justified treating them like shit until then.

That’s why I’ve brought the kids to the zoo. Well, why be head of comms for the Aspinall Foundation if you can’t stay in an adjoining mansion rent-free once in a while?

It’s a break from Downing Street and the kids like the animals. Wilfred saw a big fat silverback gorilla lying scratching its arse and said ‘Daddy,’ reminding me of the other reason I got out of there.

It’s like clockwork. Escaping unscathed when he’s clearly guilty as fucking sin is his erotic trigger. After he’d got away with Dom Cummings it was so hard you could hang a towel off it.

Romy’s only five months old. I’m not ready to go through that again. It’s a risk leaving him on his own, obviously, but all the spads got fined shitloads so they’re not up for a shag.

Should be all safe by next week. Though when does the privileges committee do their report? He knows they can’t touch him. I’d better book in for then.