WAKING up with a hangover so intense the beating of my temples is loud enough to make people start dancing on the lawns beneath my chambers, I reflect on a somewhat disconcerting week.

The story began three days ago, when I suddenly realised I had lost the ability to swear. I had attempted to deliver a sermon but despite all the expletives being clearly written out, I could not give utterance to them. I merely mouthed silently for seconds at a time, to the puzzlement of my congregation.

This was a catastrophe, a neurological malfunction of some sort. I could only manage words such as ‘flipping’, ‘rotter’, or ‘ploppy’ – scarcely adequate for any occasion.

Finally, having been given scans by a Harley Street specialist who subjected me to videos of Keir Starmer, tweets by JK Rowling and th

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