The Archbishop of Canterbury on... a shitty week for horses

WAKING up with a hangover roughly the size of Grimsby, I recall the excitement of earlier this week. The binmen had come to recycle my bottles – a larger consignment than usual, which I had deposited in a giant green wheelie bin. 

As the empty vodka, gin and wine bottles crashed with a loud report into the back of the dustcart, it seems the sudden sound caused Household Cavalry horses to rear up with a start, throw off their riders and gallop frenziedly through the streets of Central London like harbingers of the Apocalypse. 

The moral of this story is never to miss bin day and allow your bottles to accumulate over a fortnight.

That lesson learned, I attend to my breakfast tray and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Conservative MP Mark Jenkinson has asserted that Labour’s plans to renationalise the railways would take us back to the dark days of the 1970s and herald ‘the return of the British Rail sandwich’. Mr Jenkinson was born in 1982.

You don’t remember shit, you spotty little Tory twat! Twelve years old when British Rail was turned into a mechanism to channel ‘customers’ money directly into offshore accounts! You don’t remember not having to take out a fucking mortgage to travel to Newcastle. Or not getting fucking stampeded at Euston because they announce the trains so late. Or have Richard Branson raking it in with his fucking clown car rail service! I would eat literal shit sandwiches in return for renationalisation! And regular commuters would ask for second fucking helpings!

Coventry City put up a grand fight in the Football Association Challenge Cup semi-final against Manchester United, only to be denied a winning goal by VAR technology in the dying seconds of the game.

You know what God thinks? Fuck VAR. Fuck it right up Satan’s arse! Fuck it in a boiling vat of elephant smegma! Fuck it frontways, sideways, every fucking way! We could all do with a laugh and one of the biggest laughs in football history, Man U going from 3-0 up to 4-3 down against Coventry City, was denied by some cunt with a ruler and no fucking soul! You call that offside? Based on the blurry 1980s Atari visuals of that fucking still? Just give the goal, you pedantic, adenoidal little arsehole! ‘Romance of the Cup’, my bollocks! This was as romantic as going on a first date and taking out a pocket fucking calculator to split the fucking restaurant bill! 

Also in the world of football, John Terry has been in the news after recounting a story in which he and his fellow Chelsea players told the manager they would boycott a flight unless they were moved from economy to first class.

A word in your ear, Terry, you whining fuck. When it comes to planes, you don’t belong in first class. You don’t belong in economy class. You belong in a class of your own: fucking Terry class, which is a lead box at the back of the plane, with the luggage, in temperatures of minus 20 degrees. Everyone fucking hates you. Everyone cheered when you slipped on your fucking arse taking a penalty that would have won Chelsea the European Cup. Including, I suspect, the handful of decent Chelsea fans, some fellow players and Chelsea staff! That’s because you are, without doubt, the worst copper-bottomed cunt ever to pull on a pair of fucking shorts!

Finally, St George’s Day was celebrated this week, with far-right demonstrators marking the event by starting fights and assaulting a police horse in central London.

Fuck me, it’s been a shit week for horses, hasn’t it? Bolting through Central London, getting the crap beaten out of them by boneheaded, pissed-up Nazis! Still, God bless St George, eh, a Greek man born in what’s now Turkey, who became a Roman soldier, ended up buried in Israel and almost certainly never slayed a dragon on account of dragons not fucking existing! Can you imagine if he’d washed up on British shores today, this most foreign of fucking foreigners, in his dinghy, clutching an impressively dead dragon’s head? He’d have been first on the passenger list to fucking Rwanda!

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When Laurence Fox cannot call you a paedophile without being bankrupted, freedom is dead

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who believes the Met should be classified as a terrorist organisation

IT IS every Englishman’s inalienable right, when defending himself on social media, to brand strangers paedophiles and gin up a mob. 

Churchill did it, withdrawing his charges of ‘Welsh paedo’ against Nye Bevan only after the latter had been dismembered by an angry crowd and scattered across a Cardiff trainyard. Henry VIII did it to Anne Boleyn, and Mordred to Lancelot.

On these isles, it is as ancient a tradition as impregnating and subsequently murdering a maidservant. Yet when Laurence Fox, harried by the hounds of wokeness, takes his turn suddenly it is all change.

Suddenly, accusing a stranger of paedophilia to approximately one billion Twitter followers – I refuse to use its post-transition name X – is a serious matter. Suddenly, for no other reason than the authorities’ thirst to bring Laurence down, it is libel.

Nonsense. I spend at least half of every day calling strangers paedophiles. Whether on the neighbourhood Facebook, Yelp, TripAdvisor or just shouted from a passing car, I’m at it constantly and it’s always taken in the spirit intended: light-hearted jest.

Yet when Mr Fox said the same after being taunted by drag queers and career queens for being racist, it was treated as a serious slur. Was it coincidence that polls at the time showed him 200 per cent ahead of the despised Sadiq Khan in the London mayoral race?

Today we learn he has been fined £90,000 per nonce. No wonder the BBC got away with covering up the late Jimmy Savile’s crimes for so many years if that’s the price of justice.

And so, kicked out of GB News, ineligible to run as mayor because he is white, custody of his children awarded to Billie Piper and David Tennant, Laurence has lost everything.

He will end his days in London’s Docklands, destitute and broken, working as a male prostitute. Offering head and hand to Canary Wharf bankers at a quid a pop. And the same goes for freedom of speech in this broken country.