Seven deadly bins – Sunak to save the day

Sunak was a Dick. A Private Dick – and also a Public Dick. The film noir rain lashed his office window in moody black and white. He looked at a picture of his wife and thought 'There's a dame whose share portfolio benefits from government policy'.

The red string and drawing pins all led to one place - but where? He looked at his glass of Diet Coke – his seventh of the day – and hurled it at the wall in frustration.

'Pride, greed, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony and sloth. But you need all of those to be a Tory MP' he thought to himself. 'Doc, Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, Sneezy and Dopey are already in the Cabinet. Seven Samurai? Seven days of the week? Seven weeks of Liz Truss as PM?'

'My god… it can't be. It's the bins! I must save the people before they have to buy insulation.'

Sunak has pledged that if he finds Gwyneth Paltrow's severed head in a box, he won't shoot Kevin Spacey, but instead he will put it in the brown organic bin that goes out on alternate Wednesdays, as long as the moon is in Aquarius. Otherwise he'd have to pay a meat tax. And without the rest of her body, Paltrow might not count as a compulsory car sharing companion.

'Why are my hands so heavy?' he wailed.

Retired priest persuaded to take on ‘one last Mass’

He was home free. After a lifetime of saving souls, dipping into the collection plate and running from Satan, Fr Mackenzie finally had a shot at retirement. But the Bishop had other plans. And you don't bash the Bishop.

'It's the Randle brothers. They'll be in town next month. Sinners and filthy rich. Could be our biggest score'.

'I told ya, Bish. I'm never goin' back'.

The Bishop looked around the tiny apartment. 'Call this home? You could be in St Anselm's playing chess with the others'.

Fr Mackenzie sighed. He knew the conversation. 'I'm alone, Bish; I am not lonely'.

It was futile, though. For a man like Fr Mackenzie, the action is the juice. He knew it, Bish knew it. And Satan was hovering, waiting for him to make a slip.

'You live simply'.

'Yeah, well, a wise priest once told me: Don't let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out on in 30 seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner. Remember that conversation, Your Grace?'

The Bishop shrugged. 'I'm not an Archbishop yet. My Lord will do. This score, though – the Randle Brothers – you could retire a Monsignor'.

He was retired already, but he needed the action. Bish knew it. They both did. He missed the juice.

'Ah, what the hell. One last job, yeah?'

The Bishop smiled. 'I'll bring the incense. Pack your rosary beads Jack, we're goin' hunting'.

Image: Kelly Sikkema (@kellysikkema) | Unsplash Photo Community

Samaritans.Org calls on TV producers to stop commissioning dark psychological serials

Samaritans.org has made an urgent plea to television drama producers, begging them to stop commissioning dark and gritty psychological police serials. In particular, singling out absolutely anything set in Scandinavia.

A spokesman for the charity said: ‘Nordic Noir often sees us completely inundated, sometimes handling upwards of three hundred calls every minute. Our phone lines go into meltdown. But it's not only this genre. During ITV's recent UK-based Trigger Point, its preposterous script and wooden acting had the nation so traumatised that we even had reports of our own call centre staff having to ring in for counselling.’