The Archbishop of Canterbury on… being glad James Corden's career in not-Britain is going well

7th November 2025

WAKING with a hangover so dehydrating I am forced to drink an entire fish tank of water, including the fish containing vital fluids, I reflect upon the events of the week.

Having given confession to Tony Blair some weeks ago as an ecumenical experiment, I was contacted by Keir Starmer’s office, requesting that he also be allowed to confess his sins. I agreed, and the prime minister knelt in his place in the confessional box, gauze dividing us.

‘Bless me, Archbishop, for I have sinned,’ he began. ‘I confess that in the grandeur of high office, I refer too infrequently to my humble origins. My father, for example, was a toolmaker.’

‘No, he owned the fucking factory, he ordered other people to make the tools, you twat, but carry on,’ I interjected.

‘Okay. Er, my other sin is that I am sometimes too focused on delivery. Delivery for British families and workers. This is my confession.’

‘That’s it?’ I hooted. ‘What about lying your fucking way to the leadership of the Labour party, living in Donald Trump’s arse, flag shagging like a Nazi and arming a fucking genocide? Say two Hail Marys and throw yourself into a septic tank full of fucking boiling goat’s semen, you utter cunt!’ Upon which I blessed and dismissed him.

Expunging the memory, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Ricky Gervais has issued a series of mock adverts for his own brand of vodka, his original ideas supposedly having been rejected by Transport For London. One showed him telling Tube users: ‘Don’t jump – you’ll make everyone late for work, you selfish prick.’

Fuck me, emboldened by an army of gurning online wankers, you get worse and more smugly anti-PC with each fucking year! By the time you’re 80 you’ll be the mental equivalent of a three-year-old kid screeching ‘I WANT MY GOLLIWOG!’ over and over! Suicide, it’s all a larf, innit, what are the woke mob up in arms about? You’re such an edgelord! You’re on the edge alright, the edge of becoming the worst kind of tedious, fake-guffawing, self-congratulatory, reactionary bore. Do what you should have done years ago and change your name to David Brent by fucking deed poll!

This week’s American elections, including that of New York’s first ever Muslim mayor, saw the Democrats make big gains. By contrast, the conservative group Moms For Liberty saw all of their 31 candidates lose completely.

Christ on a crack pipe, tell you what, there’s a shaft of light in the dark, oozing, radioactive cesspit of modern fucking politics, eh? ‘Moms For Liberty’! You mean liberty for you to say whatever awful shit it is you believe about abortion, trans people and so on, not liberty for people to explain what a ghastly bunch of fascist harridan morons you are, using the Devil’s implements known as ‘facts’! Fuck you, you appalling bunch of weirdly-spectacled, Gary Larson medieval mentalists!

Jimmy Fallon and James Corden spontaneously took to the stage at one of New York’s most exclusive nightspots, belting out karaoke versions of standards by Frank Sinatra and Tony Bennett including My Way and I Left My Heart In San Francisco.

You know, in a world where actual fucking talent is rewarded so tear-jerkingly unjustly, that an impervious wodge of pure braying twatdom like James Corden should have become a fucking star makes you weep for both humanity and the fucking catastrophic idiocy of America! You could always tell which were the bits you wrote in Gavin and Stacey as they involved no fucking humour whatsoever, just people shouting and having a fucking party! Still, it seems no amount of being rude to waiters is putting the Yanks off you, which is good. Your fellow Brits are backing your career 3,500 miles away 100 fucking per cent!

Finally, it seems that Dick Cheney, vice president during the George Bush administration and one of the architects of the war in Iraq, has died.

At least a million dead because of the lies you pushed about weapons of mass destruction! Like any sane person I don’t believe in any of this God or afterlife shit, we’re not fucking shepherds washing our socks by night, we’re fucking 21st century adults, but I wish there was a fucking hell and that a personalised boiling cauldron was being prepared for you because you’re one of the worst fucking people of this century! People rage about Trump but he’s fucking Abraham Lincoln compared to your death toll! Let’s hope they’d got the barbecue going for your gonads, you respectably evil cunt!

You could stick a banger up a cat's arse in my day: The gammon food critic's bonfire party

6th November 2025

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who reckons those women Andrew shagged were pretty fit, actually.

BONFIRE Night, what a load of fuss over something that never happened. Although God knows we could do with a modern-day Guy Fawkes to get rid of Starmer, as I cleverly keep telling people.

Of course the explosion would have to be when our heroic Reform MPs aren’t in the Commons. Although that might not be hard now I think about it, as they hardly ever turn up. Out with boots on the ground doing real work in their constituencies, I expect.

Anyway, there’s a new neighbour in the flats, Jeremy, and he’s throwing a bonfire party to ‘introduce himself’. I’ve been invited, although as it’s in the communal gardens I’d have been well within my rights to just turn up anyway.

There’s a modest bonfire already on the go when I turn up with two four-packs of lager, just to show how community-spirited I am.

Alarm bells start going off when I notice there’s no other booze. It’s an alcohol-free gathering, ‘so as not to set a bad example to the children’. F**k’s sake, they must be easily 12 or 13, I’d have been puking my guts up in the park at their age. Typical Woke Britain, stopping kids having fun.

He’s invited his ex-wife over too, who his two little darlings live with. He explains they’re still best of friends despite the divorce. Weird. I’m not allowed within 500 metres of my ex’s house because of all her lies in court about how I ‘hassled’ her.

But I digress. On to the food, and it turns out they’re bloody vegans. There’s baked potatoes with baked beans which I could have done at home in the microwave in the warm. Sausages and burgers on the grill are soya protein bollocks. It’s no wonder their kids look so pasty. Give them a large doner before someone calls social services.

There’s toffee apples too, which I eschew as they’d break my sodding dentures. And parkin, rich in molasses. I’ll skip that too, because I don’t fancy the shits in the morning, I explain to everyone. Still, I’m surreptitiously downing my beers, so at least I’m getting tipsy quickly on an empty stomach.

After ‘dinner’, which is just lager for me, it’s time for the fireworks. ‘Hope you’ve got some really loud buggers,’ I slur, only to be told they’re ‘silent fireworks’ so as not to scare nearby pets. More political correctness gone mad. In my day kids could stick bangers up cats’ arses and no one batted an eyelid. Well, apart from the cats, obviously.

Realising what a woke pile of bollocks I’ve ended up at, I decide to make my excuses and leave. Then all hell breaks loose. Little bloody Ollie has picked up a half-finished can of Special Brew I’d left unattended, downed it, and is now vomiting profusely all over his brand-new, ‘vegan leather’ brogues.

This is what happens when you mollycoddle your kids and deprive them of rites of passage like their first taste of beer. I’ve done little Ollie a favour, but do I get a word of thanks as I leave for the pub? Do I f**k. That’s what’s wrong with Britain today: bad parenting.