My metropolitan liberal elitist friends here in 78.5% Remain-voting Hackney do not hold BBC news in high regard, its election coverage considered biased in favour of the government and Laura Kuenssberg merely a horrid flesh trombone through which Dominic Cumming honks his reverberating falsehoods.

The news seemed skewed. During the election, the prime minister declined the grilling Andrew “Weetabix” Neil gave his opponents, had a selfie with an impartial Phillip Schofield on ITV and hid in a variety of white goods whenever regional reporters tried to ask basic questions, such as how many children he had or what he actually meant by any of the things he had said.

Meanwhile, Jeremy Corbyn was hung upside down in a pedal bin full of hornets by Andrew “Sphagnum” Neil and had cheese graters rubbed on his genital by an impartial Phillip Schofield on ITV. Nonetheless, despite the defeated left’s perception that a cowed BBC kowtows to government, the Tories’ policy continues to be to avoid scrutiny on news outlets favoured by “Westminster obsessives”, which is post-truth newspeak for “people who understand and care about politics”. Maybe the BBC is doing something right?

Even so, it was something of a shock to see Boris Piccaninny Watermelon Letterbox Cake Bumboys Vampires Haircut Wall-Spaffer Spunk-Burster Fuck-Business Fuck-the-Families Get-Off-My-Fucking-Laptop Girly-Swot Big-Girl’s-Blouse Chicken-Frit Hulk-Smash Noseringed-Crusties Death-Humbug Technology-Lessons Surrender-Bullshit French-Turds Dog-Whistle Get-Stuffed FactcheckUK@CCHQ 88%-Lies Get-Brexit-Done Bung-a-Bob-for-Big-Ben’s-Bongs Johnson’s first post-election BBC interview on Tuesday morning.

The BBC’s Laura Kuenssberg would of course be the perfect Honeybun sidekick

I didn’t even know that Gus Honeybun, the mute puppet rabbit whose leaps announced children’s birthdays on Westward Television from 1961 to 1992, was still alive, let alone conducting political interviews for BBC Breakfast. Honeybun’s inability to speak or communicate in any meaningful way made the cloth rabbit the ideal inquisitor for Turds. Turds was able to wibble his platitudes, avoiding concrete detail on care for the elderly, and saying race wasn’t an issue regarding the treatment of the smiling piccaninny Meghan Markle, the latter a subject on which Turds is uniquely equipped to pronounce.

After Honeybun’s initial attempts to attract Turds’s attention, by leaping successive sequences of leaps, each equivalent in number to the respective ages of the prime minister’s putative children, the puppet reached deep into his repertoire of silent gestures. Turds’s admission that the Americans would be unlikely to extradite the suspected hit-and-run killer Anne Sacoolas, for example, was met with three of Honeybun’s ear waggles, once beloved by West Country viewers.

Turds’s announcement of the Bung a Bob for Big Ben’s Brexit Bongs policy, which the prime minister improvised live on air like a jazzy Sonny Rollins of shit, saw Honeybun perform four of his impressive headstands, a skill his 1970s co-host Fern Britton, in her 1999 kiss-and-tell Honeybun memoir Winter Treats and Summer Delights, described as the move that melted her heart. Honeybun had hoped to respond to Turds’s comments on the racial abuse of Meghan Markle by turning on his magic colour-distorting button, which was introduced to his gestural arsenal in the 1980s, but it was purloined by a lurking Dominic Cumming, who imagined its reality-altering properties might have practical applications for perception manipulation.

While the Honeybun-Turds head to head was bad news for future political accountability in a functioning democracy, it was good news for the cloth rabbit, whose scandal-wrecked career was resurrected, with multiple offers for him to revive his birthday-announcing vehicle on a variety of digital platforms.

All Honeybun needs is a new sidekick to replace his old co-hosts Fern Britton, Judi Spiers and Ruth Langsford, all of whom are now too respected in the serious fields of broadcasting and journalism to interpret the waggles of a fabric rodent. The BBC’s Laura Kuenssberg would of course be the perfect Honeybun sidekick and would bring to the partnership her own experience of being an accommodating puppet operated by unseen hands.

In an unrelated issue, last week’s column jumped the tracks beyond its intended liberal bubble, out into the field latrine of social media, where it was eventually re-edited in a misrepresentative form by a twat. A number of Twitter users, who disliked the work, asked: “Who is Stewart Lee?”, wondered if I was “supposed to be a comedian” and, most hurtfully of all, spitefully put the word “comedian” in inverted commas, cleverly suggesting that I wasn’t a “comedian” at all. Despite many of these commentators being resourceful enough to have proudly traced their pure Viking ancestors, they seemed unable to Google my name to discover that I am indeed a comedian, irrespective of their own necessarily subjective responses to my comedy.

The Duchamp’s urinal of laughter, I have in fact been a comedian for 31 years. My last tour sold a quarter of a million tickets with no advertising to people who attended venues where I was billed as a comedian, on the shared assumption that that was indeed what I was.

In my comedian capacity I have won a Bafta, two British comedy awards and seven Chortle comedy industry awards, and was the co-recipient of an Olivier award, though I do not set any store by these accolades, do not feel that there is any genuine relationship between popularity and quality and mention sales figures and acclaim only to refute the warped aspirational value systems of those who respect them. My current show has received uniform five- and four-star reviews in every British broadsheet newspaper, from the neo-Nazi Telegraph to the Marxist Guardian, but not in the Times, though that paper did last year declare me “the world’s greatest living standup comedian”.

Indeed, the “Wokefinder General” himself, Ricky Gervais, called me “the cleverest, funniest, most cliche-free comedian on the circuit”, though this was perhaps an attempt to absolve himself of an imagined crime, a heart beating beneath the floorboards. I hope this information clarifies any ongoing confusion as unfortunately I do not have time to deal with all your queries individually.

Stewart Lee’s Snowflake: Tornado is at London’s Southbank Centre in June and July, and tours nationally from 28 January