Let's move to a picturesque riverside city that spends winter submerged and uninhabitable! This week: Worcester

What’s it about?

A tiny city with an incongruously massive cathedral, Worcester is popular with anglers, canoeists, and fans of seasonal flooding you could set your fucking watch to.

The Severn it straddles bursts its banks every winter, leaving lucky locals in oddly-affordable houses with stunning river views wading through their submerged front rooms and anyone living on higher ground feeling like a king.

Worcester was nicknamed ‘The Faithful City’ due to its unwavering support for the Crown during the Civil War, a fact less than one per cent of the current population know or give a bugger about.

Any good points?

It’s the home of Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce, a curious condiment consisting of molasses, vinegar and mashed anchovies, which is a staple on tables in Mexico for unfathomable reasons. Great fun for tricking visiting vegans who don’t read labels properly, it’s also a key ingredient in a Bloody Mary, the vodka cocktail it’s fine to have at breakfast.

The New Road county cricket ground is also rightly acknowledged as probably the most beautiful in the country when it’s not under five feet of water. Unfortunately the team itself is shit.

Beautiful landscape?

Very much so. Riverside walks pass enough swans to keep the King fed every day for years, and take in the cathedral which took 500 years to build and another 500 to become widely ignored.

A little further along you come to Diglis weir, where in spring you can watch salmon majestically leaping the falls on their long journey back home to mate and die of exhaustion.

There’s also the immaculate gardens of the inappropriately named Cripplegate Park, where locals stroll among the flower beds, hold picnics in summer and do unholy shit after nightfall. Stay away. Those activities might be the cause of the floods.

Hang out at…

If hitting pack animals with a whip and seeing which one is panicked into bolting the fastest is your thing, Pitchcroft Racecourse holds regular meets. Like everything else it’s next to the river and often resembles a boating lake. The Common Sense Building Awards won’t be honouring Worcester any time soon.

There’s the aforementioned cricket ground, where gammons go to die, and there was Premiership Rugby at Worcester Warriors’ Sixways Stadium until finances went to shit last year leaving them in a temporary state of non-existence. ‘Can’t even run a Rugby Union club’ is a pretty potent insult in small English town rap battles.

Where to buy?

If you’re loaded and don’t mind being considered a new arrival for the next half-century, Hallow on the city outskirts is a picture postcard English country village. With village green, 19th-century church, and more than a hint of depraved occult practices below the surface.

Not wealthy? Warndon and Peopleton are cheap and featureless. Just don’t be a dickhead and buy a house by the fucking river.

From the streets… 

Margaret Gerving, aged 57, on a coach trip: “When you’re sat by the river feeding the seagulls you can shut your eyes and it’s like you’re by the seaside.”

Normal Steele, aged 34, resident: “Fucking coachloads of tourists rock up and chuck chips at the bastard seagulls then fuck off leaving us being swooped at because they think we’re going to feed them. It’s hell.”

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The Archbishop of Canterbury's review of the shitshow year

WAKING in the basket of a hot air balloon, a pastime I enjoy at years’ end combined with the consumption of alcoholic beverages, I realise that the balloon is descending rapidly. 

The problem is caused by the excess of bottles I have on board. I immediately jettison the empties, but it is not enough. To throw out the still unconsumed bottles, hand-picked from my cellars, would be unthinkable. I therefore take the only reasonable course of action.

I chug down 12 bottles of red wine, throw the empties at passing houses and urinate with all my might to lighten the balloon’s load. Mercifully, my efforts are sufficient and the balloon lands with a gentle thud in Regent’s Park.

I step out of the basket, nod benignly at a urine-doused family of four and repair to my chambers to take in a tumultuous year. For example, Liz Truss used her short time in office to conduct a radical economic experiment.

St Peter’s severed penis posted to the Corinthians, talk about sending in an arsonist to deal with the fucking heating bills! We can all warm our fucking hands this winter around the still raging fire of an absolutely fucked economy! Thanks a bunch, you off-the-fucking-spectrum psycho incompetent! All because you wanted to dress up as a prime minister with the hat and everything! Fuck you and the Tories you rode in on, you colossal, gormless tragedy of a fucking sub-human, unfit for the post of Downing Street cat’s clagnut-trimmer let alone leader of a country, for cunt’s sake!

2022 was also the year in which Her Majesty Elizabeth II died aged 96, triggering a period of national mourning.

Yeah, as I said in my first sermon the moment the embargo on anything but grovelling drivel was lifted, that’s two cocking, pissing, shitting, wanking weeks of my fucking life I’ll never get back! Hours and fucking hours of spurious fucking eulogising by professional sycophants could be boiled down to: she did and said fuck all about anything and would have made a good statue if she’d been a bit more animated! Did fuck all, that is, except put up the hush money for her nonce son, who she loved like a fucking Savile!

2022 was also the year in which Matt Hancock was relieved of the Tory whip for agreeing to participate in I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! Many felt that his appearance on the show helped ‘humanise’ him.

You know, you can take a Boxing Day turd – steaming, alcohol-poisoned and slightly bloodied – and make a fucking gingerbread man out of it but that’s not making a fucking human! You can shove as many kangaroo testicles down the mouth of a man, pour as much wallaby shit over him as you like but a cunt remains a cunt no matter what! Sadly, the shitshow over which he previously presided – I’m In an Old People’s Home Rife With COVID… Get Me Out of Here! – wasn’t such a riproaring fucking success!

Piers Morgan, having left ITV in high dudgeon, starred in his own show Piers Morgan Uncensored on TalkTV.

And no-one fucking watched it, did they? Uncensored? You could have been naked taking a baboon from behind across the fucking desk and no one would have complained because no one was fucking watching! You confused being well-known with being well-liked, didn’t you? People weren’t fucking watching you, they were watching Good Morning Britain, not because it was good but because it was morning in Britain and it was fucking on! Everyone hates you, you towering, wrong-about-everything pillar of sheer cunt!

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle starred in a Netflix docmentary which enraged many commentators as they felt it undermined British traditions.

Yeah? And what fucking traditions would they be? Racism? Breathtaking rudeness? Feudal cocksucking? Nonce-shielding? Tax avoiding? Horse worship? Sustained psychological cruelty to preserve the facade of a rotting aristocratic edifice? Princess persecuting? Just fuck right off, you pack of brown-nosed, self-righteous, hypocritical-for-money twats!

Finally, 2022 was the year in which Rebekah Vardy lost her libel case against Coleen Rooney, a courtroom drama she launched which cost her an estimated £1.5 million.

Bless you, Rebekah fucking Vardy, bless you! Your wilful obliviousness to your own unbelievable, money-pissing doltishness kept a nation absolutely pissing itself in its darkest hours! ‘Davey Jones’ locker’ was the clincher! I bet even God, if he exists and just occasionally I think He just might, was laughing up in Heaven glad he created mankind after all for fucking moments like this. I shit you not, you should get a peerage for services to the nation’s morale! Take Michelle Mone’s seat, why the fuck not?