Bob Dylan and other legends coining it on the basis this might be their last tour

31st August 2026

TICKETS to see Bob Dylan have been dynamically priced in correlation with his life expectancy. These musicians also use the spectre of their imminent loss to jack up the price:

Bob Dylan

Nobody knows what Bob Dylan is singing, including Bob Dylan. This has always been the way, and his rabid fans are more than happy to pay to hear him belt out his greatest hits in a voice like a wheelie bin dragged across gravel. So long as he sticks to the hits and not those god-awful Christmas songs.

The Rolling Stones

Despite their rock and roll lifestyle, Mick Jagger, Keith Richards and Ronnie Wood have somehow reached the age where their biggest upcoming event should be an NHS hearing test. Yet they continue to fill stadiums because there is apparently no amount of money that makes the band think ‘actually, we’ve got enough now.’

Neil Young

Neil Young has spent his career making heartfelt music full of authenticity and integrity, all while continuing to charge you £90 for a seat behind a pillar. Still, you should appreciate his commitment to playing live. If he didn’t you’d have to spend your evening listening to him on Spotify unless he’s taken his music off there again.

Bruce Springsteen

The Boss is still doing three-hour shows at an age when most people consider staying awake until the ten o’clock news an achievement. Anxious fans insist every tour could be his last, which is why they’re prepared to remortgage the house to watch him perform Born To Run from a seated position.

Paul McCartney

The best Beatle you can still see live and the closest anyone under 70 will ever get to seeing the Fab Four. You may be paying hundreds of pounds to watch an 84-year-old sing songs written before your parents were born, but you don’t mind because hearing him perform Hey Jude feels historically important. Plus you can sing along. And he seems nice.

Eric Clapton

Still touring, despite having been around long enough to remember when musicians had to be talented before becoming controversial. Fans attend partly to see if he’ll launch into an acoustic version of Layla or another bigoted tirade. Real ones know he saves the latter for the second encore, once all the squares have gone home.

Rod Stewart

Behold, the horror of a man born in 1945 sashaying with blondes who most certainly do not think he’s sexy. He’s cancelled a few dates for routine surgery but won’t let something as trivial as being 81 stop him behaving like a man who has just discovered women. Maybe these gold-digging hussies are just after his train sets?

The Archbishop of Canterbury on… Richard Tice's death-fuelled wine industry

28th August 2026

WAKING up with a hangover so excruciating I crave a head transplant, I pop an Alker-Seltzer and pray to any god who’ll listen for relief.

Shortly after, a diffident knock at the door can only mean the arrival of one person.

“Good morning, Archbishop.”

“Andrew,” I reply, coldly.

“Call me Andy,” said the prime minister.

“What can I do for you, Andrew?”

“I wanted to run some of my radical initiatives past you.”

“Have you stopped selling arms to Israel yet?”

“Er – no. But I am planning to open a Northern No.11, only in Macclesfield and- ”

“Planning to renationalise water?”

“No, er – no. But how about this? Wonderwall as a new anthem for the North West? Anthems for all the regions. We could- ”

“Anything to say, anything at all, about climate change?”

“No. But how about this? Britain to host the European fencing championships in 2052?”

“You know, Andrew, you’re a small minded, useless fuckwit of a PM. Everyone fucking knows it, but no one’s saying it because we all know who the fucking alternative is and we want him dead and buried!”

“Please. Call me Andy…”

“FUCK OFF!”

And so he does, upon which I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Radko Mladic, convicted of genocide in the 1992-1995 war in Bosnia, has died in The Hague.

Fuck me, the evil get to live fucking long lives, don’t they? I hope he spent the last decade of his life within sniffing distance of his own slop bucket, staring at empty grey walls, wondering if he might have been better off spending his working career as a road sweeper rather than a murderous, butchering lump of scum? Still, now that the cunt has carked it there is an extra cell available, and let’s fucking hope its next occupant is fucking Netanyahu!

JK Rowling tweeted her condolences following the death of Dolly Parton. In response, a trans person pointed out that the late singer was a staunch ally, prompting Rowling to deadname the critic.

Truly, you are the anti-Parton aren’t you, Rowling? Think she would have regarded someone as monomaniacally consumed with hatred as you as any kind of pal? You’re no more welcome at her mourning than you are at Pride! If there were an afterlife, and fortunately for you there isn’t, no fucking way would you and Dolly Parton be meeting in it!

Richard Tice, deputy leader of Reform UK, has opined that Britons should ‘celebrate’ the extreme heat that has caused 3,000 excess deaths this Summer, stating that it was great news for the wine industry.

Christ’s cock on a cuntstick, I genuinely believe it is impossible for someone to be as rich and as fucking stupid as you are! I actually think you’ve sat down, had a very brief, one-sided conversation with yourself and convinced yourself that climate change means Britain upgrading to Italian or Spanish weather conditions! Your partner Isobel Oakeshott is evil but you, I think, are just an actual fucking moron!

Finally, Donald Trump, as part of his ongoing grudge against Canada, has signed an order decreeing that Lake Ontario be renamed Lake America.

I mean, clearly it’s a matter of months, maybe weeks now before the nurses roll up at the Oval Office with the wheelbarrow and you’re carted off to the funny farm but fucking hell, in the meantime… tell you what, while we’re fucking renaming things, from here on, you are Donald Cunt. Let the word go out. On social media, wherever, for the final, wretched lap of your roosting atop the world. Donald Cunt. It suits you.