The Archbishop of Canterbury on... 72 genders and Gillian Keegan chose 'stupid cow'

WAKING in my bed awash with vomit, the result, doubtless, of a bad kipper after a late evening, I hose myself down and reflect on yesterday’s events. 

It is one of the less pleasant chores of my role to meet with prominent politicians. Having put it off for many months, I have agreed to a brief audience with Rishi Sunak.

I open the door only to be confronted by a short lad with a rictus grin, bug eyes and half-mast trousers. I am about to tell him to run along as I have an important meeting when I realise this is Mr Sunak. He is much shorter than you think in real life – about 2’ 8”. 

We quickly get down to business in my library. What are your plans for the NHS? I ask him. ‘We represent security and stability whereas Labour represents anarchy.’ Further education? ‘Free speech is one thing but mindless violence is another.’ And the economy? ‘Israel has a right to defend itself.’ 

After ten more minutes of this nonsense I lift him from his chair. ‘Wait, what? Let go!’ he squeals as I seat him atop a high shelf before leaving the library. He might still be there now, for all I know. 

I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Keir Starmer has set out his six ‘steps’ for government. These include ‘Deliver economic stability’ and ‘Launch a new Border Security Command’.

Chop off my big toe and shove it half a yard up my fucking rectum, is this it? A farrago of half-baked schemes and reactionary bait for wavering Tories whose cocks you’re so fucking desperate to suck? I notice you say ‘steps’ because of course ‘pledges’ means nothing coming from your lying fucking mouth! It might as well read: 1. Fuck all. 2. Fuck all. 3. See 1 and 2. 4. Get to ride in a big car and go to Buckingham Palace. 5. Fuck all. 6. Water down promise to do fuck all. Add ‘Being a shitscared, useless, rabbit-faced lump of white dogshit’ to the list, because you’re already fucking doing that!

Education minister Gillian Keegan has been on the BBC discussing sex education in schools. When asked what nine-year-olds were currently exposed to, she replied: ‘Things like choosing lots of different types of genders, identities, the spectrum, it’s fluid, different genders on different days, there’s 72 of them.’

What the fuck are you wittering on about? 72 genders? You just pulled that out of your fucking arse, didn’t you, Gillian? We can see it’s smeared in shit as you say it! This is verbal fucking incontinence on a Trumpian scale! You shouldn’t be running a government department, you should be in some sort of fucking home babbling all through fucking Countdown, with carers having to hold your fucking nose to get you to open your mouth and take your nice sleepy pills!

Prince Charles has unveiled a new portrait of his Royal personage, painted by one Jonathan Yeo. Depicting him in the uniform of the Welsh Guards, it shows the King surrounded by billowing clouds of infernal red.

Hahaha, Jesus H Cockwipe, you were fucking happy with this? That’s not art, that’s the prison cell of an IRA guy staging a fucking dirty protest after shitting blood from 12 weeks on hunger strike! I mean, what the fuck? Is this what constitutes ‘modern’ in your half-arsed, Poundbury-addled mind? It looks like it’s been knocked up with a fucking sponge in about ten minutes. If I’d been presented with this I’d have taken it off the easel and smashed it over the twat’s head, like in a fucking Laurel and Hardy film. Sorry about your prostate and that, but you really are a silly old cunt!

Finally, citizens of the UK were afforded a rare glimpse of the Aurora Borealis, or Northern Lights, over the weekend, with many, many images of the beautiful spectacle appearing on social media.

Yeah? Well they weren’t fucking visible round my end, I can fucking tell you! Aurora Borealis? Aurora Shitty Arsis, more fucking like! I’ve drunk non-alcoholic gins that were less fucking disappointing than this! Making me stand in my garden for an hour like a mug, pointing my camera at a sky unusually tedious even for this time of year! You can take your shimmering images, your luminous skyscapes, your breathtaking wonders of nature and shove them up your fucking arses! You probably only got a good view because you live in the countryside and that makes you a cunt for a start!

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Another Great British tradition that's gone to shit: The gammon food critic's Sunday carvery

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks we’d stand a better chance of winning Eurovision if we chose proper singers instead of poofs.

IF there’s one thing more quintessentially British than our victory at Dunkirk, it’s a Sunday roast. I know the French take the piss with their ‘les rosbifs’ jibes, but who cares about a nation who would’ve beheaded Princess Di?

Give me a proper roast any day of the week. Trouble is, when you’re divorced and living on your own it’s too much trouble to bother with. Like housework, changing your pants and washing your tackle.

So I’ve decided to treat myself and I’m off to my local carvery for a proper, slap-up lunch. 

The first thing they ask me, like everywhere these days, is if I have any allergies. Is this a Toby Inn or the doctor’s surgery? It’s all down to the snowflake generation, of course. You’re probably not allowed a dessert unless you support Hamas.

There’s a discount if you order two courses, so I go for the patriotic classic, prawn cocktail. I leave the lettuce though. I’m not auditioning for Watership Down.

Then I join the queue for the carvery. There’s a choice of three meats. Turkey – what, have they moved Christmas to May now? – pork or beef. Obviously I’m going with the beef. Stick that up your arse, Robespierre.

I stand proffering my plate as the chef – who looks about bloody 12 – carves slices of topside. He stops at three, so I stand there staring expectantly at him to keep going. He doesn’t. That’s alright, I can wait, nothing else planned this afternoon.

After a minute or two the mutterings of the greedy bastards behind me become more pronounced, so I bring our Mexican standoff to an end and go to the self-service veg. At least there are no teenage Hitlers here to decide how hungry I am for me.

And that’s when I remember why I never bother doing this any more. It’s bollocks.

Roast potatoes that have sat in a hot hold cabinet so long they’re more like tennis balls than the deliciously crispy delights you used to get before the country went to shit. Silly little carrot batons that are ‘al dente’, that’s ‘undercooked’ if you don’t speak Eyetie. Broccoli that’s just mush. It’s bizarre that in an age of faddish plant diets that leave you weak and effeminate we’ve forgotten how to cook veg.

They’re serving Yorkshire puddings at the end of the line. I love a mouthful of pud so I scuttle along eagerly.

At which point, the greatest modern cardinal sin to befall our beloved roast is committed right in front of me: they fill it with f**king gravy. When did this become acceptable? My Yorkshire’s gone soggy and looks like a paddling pool a toddler’s had an explosive dose of the shits in.

Having eaten unsatisfactorily, I ponder how many fine British institutions have been lost to political correctness and pandering to the whims of ingrates who, if they don’t like our culture, can always bugger off where they came from. Still, not letting it ruin my Sunday. Think I’ll go for a curry later.