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The Archbishop of Canterbury on… Corbyn vs Sultana for what's left of the left

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating that I consider deploying the self-assembled guillotine gifted to me by the Archbishop of Amiens, I reflect on the events of the last week. 

Following Nigel Farage’s statements about Sharia law being imminent, I had invited him for a private luncheon with two friends of mine from Kebab Boyz 4 Lyfe, an establishment I often come to in after a 12-18 hour blackout.

Mohammed and Amir looming behind me, I inform Farage sotto voce that Sharia had indeed been secretly introduced in London and I was now subject to it.

‘I’m afraid you are too,’ I continued, ‘and I regret that you are summarily charged with the crime against Islam of bearing false witness. That nonsense about immigrants eating swans. Allah’s sentence? Removal of your left bollock.’

Mohammed produced his carving blade, took hold of a struggling Farage, laid him out, pulled down his trousers and raised the knife aloft while the Reform leader screamed like a small girl. At which point I intervened.

‘You may be spared punishment if you promise never to divulge again the secret of Sharia Law in London,’ to which the craven dog readily concurred. With a wry smile, I take a light breakfast and read that the party, founded by Jeremy Corbyn and Zara Sultana has faltered before even beginning.

Oh shit on a Socialist Worker, the fucking last thing we needed! An excuse for chortling centrists to make shit jokes about the Judean People’s Front and The People’s Front of Judea! And worse, they’ve got a point! You’re both to fucking blame, but you in particular Corbyn, you and the phalanx of fucking factionalists you’re surrounded with! Fuck off and make jam, you absolute cocking liability!

89-year-old Woody Allen has published a novel called What’s With Baum? about a bespectacled Jewish writer caught up in a MeToo scandal.

You know what I loathe about you, you weird, sex-obsessed, boundary-less, imprisonable freak about to celebrate 60 years since you actually said or did anything remotely funny? Not all of that but your terminal fucking inability to look past your fucking self. Everything is fucking autobiography with you, you pathologically narcissistic little cunt! Go Baum yourself!

Finally, it seems the Labour Party is mired in difficulty. Lagging in the polls and facing a possible leadership challenge by Andy Burnham in the offing, hit by staff departures and dogged by accusations of undeclared funding.

Well, the end for far-and-away the most wretched, hapless, clueless, cowardly, amoral, obsequious, desperate, corrupt, lying, pathetic, vile, sweaty, honking, ugly Labour administrations in 100 years is fucking nigh! The staff are deserting like the obese fatberg-squatting rats they fucking are! A country bitterly divided in so many ways agrees Keir Starmer is an onanist of the first fucking order! The Kingdom is United again!

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A confused millennial tries to… live rent-free in his childhood bedroom

By Josh Gardner, living through his second matcha phase

My unc landlord gave me some sus news today. He’s learned there are bigger numbers than the one he’s currently charging me for rent and is upping payments accordingly. I’m chopped.

My box-room six-person-houseshare swag life is unaffordable. My Patreon, for my work review and ranking Youtube reaction videos, isn’t turning a profit. I’ve got no choice but to crash out.

I’m lowkey shitting myself. Where would I go? The only space where I’ve really built a community of like-minded souls is the Beyblade X fan-fiction forum, and they all live at home.

I fired up Rightmove and started looking for spare rooms. Sadly they were all high-maintenance and demanded a stable income. I was getting less action than when unconvincingly playing a dom on Feeld.

I briefly thought about hopping on a freight train and becoming a beatnik like in On the Road, which I’ve seen summarised on TikTok. My brain ratio’d this idea when I found out they don’t have Wi-Fi. How did Dean Moriarty watch Wednesday fan edits?

Then I remembered my parents still exist, despite being left for dead by popular culture around the era of the Skibidi toilet. And so does my spare room even if it is a disused gym.

It took all of my courage to contact them in their preferred way: a phone call. I struggled to understand what they were saying without memes – such an efficient way of communicating, to put captions on screengrabs – but they were not bussin about the idea.

‘But it’s hard out here on the streets of late-stage capitalism,’ I whined. ‘Come on dad, is it my fault you f**ked up the housing market?’ ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll claim carers’ allowance and let you have it,’ I said. ‘Done,’ he said.

Mission accomplished, as George Bush said when he did 9-11. I’m back in their place, back vaping CBD and back on three pumpkin spice lattes a day. Also Palestine can go recognise itself; my new cause is abolishing inheritance tax.

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