The Archbishop of Canterbury on... a Glastonbury line-up who should be playing Butlin's

WAKING with a hangover that would doubtless make a Geiger counter explode if it attempted to measure it, I reflect on what drove me to my present condition. The answer? Ed Davey.

I had arranged to meet my third prospective prime minister, Mr Davey, leader of the Liberal Democrats, who has had a somewhat lively campaign. He arrived at my chambers on a skateboard, dressed as a clown, and introduced himself by throwing a bucket of tinsel over my personage. 

‘Hi, I’m Mr Ed!’ he announced, in a wacky voice. ‘That’s why I’m a little hoarse. Hoarse! Horse! Get it? What do you say to that, Archbish?’

I looked him over. His was a familiar face. 

‘You were the cunt in charge when the Post Office fucked over the postmasters, weren’t you?’ I said, before applying my knee sharply between his legs. The fellow exited, grimacing, knock-kneed and weeping as he clutched his unmentionables. Truly I had done God’s work.

Dismissing the memory, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Just Stop Oil protestors sprayed Stonehenge with washable orange paint. The reaction was furious, with Labour’s David Lammy insisting it was ‘vandalism’ and the perpetrators should face ‘the full force of the law’. 

Feed my severed cock to my fucking hamster, this non-event has flushed out the hypocritical fucks, hasn’t it? People who care more of about inanimate objects and property than fucking human beings! It’s washable, Lammy. You could wash most of it away in a single piss, you fucking div. They’re building a road tunnel underneath Stonehenge, but you and the ‘party of drivers’ have got fuck all to say about that! And there’s a bit more than ‘vandalism’ going on right now in Gaza! Not a peep from you about that, you two-faced fucking creep!

The Conservative Party have put out a new campaign video, showing a red carpet being laid out on a British beach, implying Labour would welcome incoming migrants en masse.

Yeah, straight up fucking BNP, no messing. You know what? I would fucking welcome anyone desperate enough to come to a tepid Atlantic shithole like the UK and try and build a a life, and throw you fuckers in the sea instead! Although rest assured, the political cowards who laughingly call themselves Labour will be just as racist as you. Yep, you’ve decided to actually become a pissed, bigoted old uncle who ruins family dinners with his loathsome bollocks, and wets his trousers into the fucking bargain. And like a bigoted uncle being bundled into an afternoon cab, the country can’t wait for you to fuck off!

Glastonbury 2024 is set to commence next week, with the line-up set to include Coldplay, Avril Lavigne, Shania Twain and Paul Heaton.

Jesus shat his bed, spare me the fucking wall-to-wall, round-the-clock coverage of this fucking pseudo-countercultural, ozone-ruining farrago of helicoptered cultural spacewasters and has-beens! By rights they should be playing fucking Butlin’s, the Batley Variety Club or fucking chicken in a basket events in the fucking regions! It’s the fucking cows I feel sorry for, ‘cos they can’t even get off their fucking mooing heads! Still, it’ll be too cold, too wet or too hot, so the idiots who flock to overinflated wallet-emptying grifts like this will be fucking miserable at least!

Finally, England faced Denmark in the second game of their group stage, drawing 1-1 in what was considered a ‘frustrating’ performance by pundits.

Fuck me, ‘frustrating’? No – frustrating is being wank-denied by a Nigerian bishop turning up unexpectedly at Lambeth Palace just when you’re getting into your stroke. England were, without doubt, a pile of absolute lethargic, inept, steaming, stinking shite! Sure, there are better surfaces at fucking Glastonbury than that pitch, but Christ on a cock machine, the teams that turned out at fucking Soccer Aid would have put in a better performance than that! It’s fucking Denmark! Have you seen the size of it? Drawing to them was like drawing to fucking Wiltshire!

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We're all doomed. Our way of life cannot withstand Starmer's rampant supermajority

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who fears she must prepare cyanide for the family as Eva did

WE tend not to brag about majorities, in this country. As Blair proved, it’s vulgar. Boris’s was only described as ‘stonking’ in sly tribute to his sexual charisma. 

But what looms ahead of us, red and pumping with power and bloody huge, will soon overwhelm us all. Not two weeks hence, the dormant volcano of Stamer’s supermajority will erupt. None will have any choice but to swallow it.

Never heard of a supermajority before? That’s because the term was invented last week to describe the sheer scale of the approaching catastrophe. And it’s already out of date. We should now be calling it the ultramajority, hypermajority or Granddad’s Knob.

With polls showing the Tories returning a mere 53 seats – more than those blue socialists deserve – Starmer has ultimate power. Parliament, the Lords, the Royal Family, the judiciary can all be incinerated in a glance of his single red eye.

This is no ordinary, sensible majority, like Thatcher’s modest 144. With a majority of 382, half his party could rebel against a palpably insane policy like legalising fanny-farming and he’d still thrust it through like a dick through a glory hole.

The weight of it will warp reality itself. You’ll wake up on July 5th and think ‘Was the sun always black? Did my non-binary children always eat toasted songbirds for breakfast? Why is my car a pond?’

Stepping out into a world insane, where the idle are showered with cash and strivers forced to strap on wooden limbs as punishment, where dropped banknotes worm along the ground on their way to the NHS, your mind will recoil and shatter.

And in the distance? Towering over everything, as large as the sky, crushing all hope? Deforming concepts like kindness into abominations like ‘let refugees in’? Starmer’s supermajority, ensuring the rightful party of power will never hold office again.

Limit his majority to 200, maximum. Let the Tories lie fallow and recover. Let Labour prove themselves, once again, genetically unfit to rule. And await the rising of a new Johnson.