WAKING with a hangover so searing the negative psychic energy causes my pet hamster Judas to expire, I reflect on another momentous week in ecclesiastical affairs.

I had been surprised to receive a request for a private audience with the American vice president JD Vance. Perhaps suspecting that he might be called on to take up the highest office, he requested that I perform on him a private baptism, a spiritual cleansing, feeling perhaps that my Englishness would lend the ceremony a certain ‘extra-spiritualness’ lacking in his superficial, native land.

I agreed and having been discreetly spirited by private plane across the Atlantic, he arrives at my premises, where I have prepared a private font, a vessel of water into which I take the opportunity to urinate copiously beforehand.

We wa

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