WAKING up with a hangover that has turned my genitals quite, quite green, I reflect on the week’s unusually warm weather.

It is my custom at this time of year to host a garden party for foreign ecclesiastical dignitaries. However, I decided that this was quite unfeasible given the heat and so placed a handwritten sign at the gate of the Palace on the morning of the event.

It read: ‘Owing To The Fucking Hot Weather And To Spare Us All A Right Cunt Of A Day Sweating Cobs, Today’s Garden Party Is Fucking Cancelled.’

The sign had only been up for ten minutes when my private secretary knocked frantically at my chambers. ‘Come!’ I boomed, and in he burst, in a great flap.

‘Y-Your Grace, I’ve just seen the… sign you put up at the gate. You – you can’t cancel the Garden Party! Dignitaries have

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