WAKING with a hangover so dehydrating I am forced to drink an entire fish tank of water, including the fish containing vital fluids, I reflect upon the events of the week.

Having given confession to Tony Blair some weeks ago as an ecumenical experiment, I was contacted by Keir Starmer’s office, requesting that he also be allowed to confess his sins. I agreed, and the prime minister knelt in his place in the confessional box, gauze dividing us.

‘Bless me, Archbishop, for I have sinned,’ he began. ‘I confess that in the grandeur of high office, I refer too infrequently to my humble origins. My father, for example, was a toolmaker.’

‘No, he owned the fucking factory, he ordered other people to make the tools, you twat, but carry on,’ I interjected.

‘Okay. Er, my other sin is that I am som

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