WAKING with a hint of a morning head, by an empty petrol can I resorted to imbibing when short of conventional spirituous liquor, I hear a nervous tap on my door. 

A clerk shuffles in with an armful of tabloid newspapers for my inspection, with headlines including BAN THIS SICK FILTH, FOUR-LETTER FURY OF MAN OF GOD and MUST WE FLING GOAT PORN AT OUR KIDS? Ah. Moral panic is in the air.

They refer, of course, to my recent stint as guest editor of Songs of Praise where I did indeed show animals copulating to illustrate Isiah 56:9, had an altercation with the Bishop of Llandfaff regarding aspects of the Pauline Epistles which became physical, and was headbutted by a nun after I showed her my genitalia by way of analogy.

As I am contracted to produce a further six shows I suppose I must expect further brickbats. Perusing the broadsheets, I read that Donald Trump, facing charges in Georgia for attempting to overturn the 2020 general election, has declared his height and weight to be 6ft 3ins and 215 pounds respectively.

Joseph’s limp celestially-cuckolded Johnson, are you shitting me? 215 pounds? And the fucking rest, you fat lump of lying fuck! No way! If you were 6ft 3in and 215 pounds, you’d have the fucking physique of mid-period Muhammad Ali! And we can see from the footage of your sagging carcass shambling from one end of a golf course to another – when you’re not shambling in and out of fucking court – that you’re 98 per cent suet! 215 pounds! Go on, take your fucking shirt off and show us your rippling torso then, you hopelessly truth-averse, pitifully vain dipping pot of rampant cunt!

The Edinburgh Festival has, as ever, attracted the cream of Britain’s comedians. This year Lorna Rose Treen won the annual award for funniest joke with: ‘I started dating a zookeeper but it turned out he was a cheetah.’

Eh? What the fuck’s that? I mean, give us a second for the wind to stop whistling and the tumbleweed to roll out of shot but you dared to put that piece of crap in the entry pot – and it fucking won? Even on its own shit terms it doesn’t even make any sense! If he turned out to be a cheetah it’d be pretty obvious he was a cheetah from the get-go, and he wouldn’t be employed by the zoo, he’d be in the fucking zoo! A box of Poundland Christmas crackers would refuse to carry a joke as incoherent as this!

Luis Rubiales has vowed to stay on as head of Spain’s football federation following calls for his resignation for kissing Spanish player Jennifer Hermoso on the lips during the Women’s World Cup trophy presentation. He accused his detractors of a ‘witch hunt’ and ‘false feminism’.

Yeah, because we could trust an oily shitebag like you to recognise true feminism when you fucking well saw it! You were lucky not to get a knee in the bollocks, you horrendous perve! This isn’t a witch hunt, pal, it’s a cunt hunt and you’ve been fucking cornered! Mind you, if you are on a cunt hunt it’s not hard these days as practically everyone in charge of running football, nationally and internationally, from fucking Infantino right down the line, is a total cunt!

Finally, it seems that Prince Andrew has launched a bid to win back his armed security detail, worth £3m a year, which he lost following the settlement of a civil sex assault case. He is supported in his bid by Priti Patel.

Holy cockrot, if anyone needs police protection and definitely isn’t getting it, it’s the young women of Britain from the groping likes of Prince Andrew! Fucking Royals, eh? He’s so lacking in self-awareness I’m surprised he knows he fucking exists! Read the fucking room, you sweatless sack of sleaze! If Priti Patel’s on your side then by definition you’re on the wrong side! You’ve as much chance of getting this security protection as Gary Glitter has of presenting Children In Need, you copper-bottomed, ocean-going wankstain!