The Archbishop of Canterbury on… end this f**king James Bond shit now

WAKING up in a bathtub full of empty vodka bottles, breaking wind wetly and relieving a mysterious thirst I have acquired by wrapping my mouth around the cold tap turned to full, I reflect on yesterday’s ecclesiastical events. 

I was droning through another sermon at the Abbey, trying not to listen to myself lest I nod off with boredom, when I had what I can only describe as a religious awakening. Despite my rank in the church I have never been remotely religious; I am in this profession purely to fund my particular lifestyle and do not even own a Bible. 

However, I was aware of a shaft of light coming through one of the upper windows and a booming voice inside my head saying, ‘Jesus is real!’ Overcome with the Holy Spirit, I began to babble: ‘My brethren, Jesus is our Lord and saviour! Repent now, for the hour of judgement is at hand!’ This visibly distressed many in the pews and a clerk attempted to remove me, causing me to tumble down the pulpit steps and bang my skull on the hard floor. 

That appeared to do the trick. The Holy Spirit, or whatever delusion it was, dispersed immediately and I was restored to sanity. With a wry smile, I climb out of the bath and take breakfast while perusing a periodical. I find that Esther McVey, the ‘Minister for Common Sense’, and a fierce critic of waste, has been claiming expenses to rent a London property despite her husband owning a flat a mile away.

Jesus H Cockrot, the fucking grift never stops with you two-faced fucks, does it? ‘Minister for Common Sense’ my mottled arse! ‘Minister for Fleecing the Public Purse’ more fucking likely! And once this latest turd has bobbed past on the endless river of sewage that is political life in this country, you’ll be back to wagging your finger at civil servants about not wasting fucking paperclips, won’t you, you shameless shitehawk? 

Speculation is rife as to the identity of the next James Bond, with the name of Aaron Taylor-Johnson squarely in the frame.

Sorry, I’m gonna have to stop myself right there. How fucking old are we as a society? 12? What kind of pubescent fucking popcornhead is still getting excited about James Bond? A sexist pisshead in evening dress singlehandedly takes out fucking supervillains in underwater lairs as the Americans look on helplessly, then gets rewarded with a fuck in a dinghy? Seriously, just end this shit. It’s this and the fucking monarchy that keeps us in a perpetual state of arrested fucking development!

A former Gogglebox star has been selected by Labour to run against deputy PM Oliver Dowden at the election. Josh Tapper, who appeared on the Channel 4 show with his family, has been confirmed as candidate for Hertsmere.

Josh fucking Tapper. The name alone tells you what kind of fatuous specimen of Snapchat juvenilia we’re fucking dealing with here! ‘Hi, I’m Josh Tapper, vote for me as the next estate agent for Hertsmere, I’m a waste of a fucking off-the-peg suit.’ Fuck off back to your family sofa to make groaning noises while watching a reality TV show, in a postmodern loop of fucking pointlessness. This is what you’re expecting us to vote for, Labour, you desperate, dismal arseholes? Josh Tapper, MP for grinning nothingness?

And finally, I read that ‘journalist’ Rod Liddle made an appearance on BBC Question Time this week.

Fucking brilliant. This oozing apology for a human being. Said he couldn’t be a teacher because he’d want to fuck the kids. Ha ha, how fucking edgy. I seem to recall he also wondered what was wrong with looking at child porn and assaulted his girlfriend too, so that’s just fine, Rod, go and sit over there with all the other far-right fuckers who make up the panel these days! You’re in good company with that mad bint Melanie Phillips, who thinks we should trust dodgy YouTube videos instead of the fucking UN about Gaza. Still, freedom of speech, eh? Which according to the BBC you’re only entitled to if you’re a physically and morally disgusting fucking troll! 

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Hash f**king browns and baked beans in pots: The gammon food critic on the demise of the full English breakfast

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks it’s double standards for women to want time off work for their periods when men don’t get it for their nose hair.

NOTHING’S sacred anymore in this once-great country of ours. They let birds play darts these days, for f**k’s sake.

All the great cornerstones of our culture – smoking in pubs, wrestling on telly on Saturday afternoon, women not allowed to be Match of the Day pundits – have been cancelled by the wokerati. Soon they’ll ban meat, and you’ll have to get black market Halal stuff from a bloke at the mosque, where you have to go every Sunday by law. 

At least for now we still have the greatest institution of them all – the full English breakfast. And there’s a new cafe opened opposite the flat, so I thought I’d give it a go before it’s all Quorn sausages and herbal teas. Wankers.

It claims to serve the ‘best full English in town’ – a foolhardy boast when there’s a Spoons just up the road. It’s an unpromising start, and it gets worse. They don’t serve Stella and ask if I want fried bread or toast. Stupid question. Do I look gay?

The food arrives and my worst fears are confirmed. Baked beans served in a little enamel pot. What am I supposed to do, f**king drink them? There’s hash browns too, another unwelcome American import along with trick or treating, Meghan Markle and shagging our women during the War. 

There’s also a grilled tomato incongruously plonked on the plate. That has as much place in a full English as a vegan in a Beefeater. Did I ask for a hot salad? I’d kill myself first.

Mushrooms I can accept, so long as they’ve been fried in bacon fat so they taste of something. These bland, apologetic bits of fungi clearly haven’t. They call it ‘heart-healthy’. I call it ‘the worst kind of interference in our lives by the nanny state’.

The sausage is okay but there’s only one of them. And two rashers of bacon. Talk about rabbit food. There’s not even any black pudding and I can guess why: Black Lives Matter.

The fried eggs are a f**king disaster too. Nobody wants ‘over easy’ eggs with runny yolks leaking all over the plate like that cyst I had on my groin. Fry them until they’re set as hard as rubber, the proper English way.

It sort of does the job, after a fashion. I pay up and leave, but I’m in a pit of despair at how far our green and pleasant land has fallen. Would we have won two World Wars if we’d served our brave lads this bollocks before taking on the Hun? No, because the krauts aren’t stingy with the sausages.