The Archbishop of Canterbury on... growth growth bloody growth

WAKING in my own bed, I am startled to discover I lie beside a slumbering horse. 

I rack my brains, still foggy from the previous evening’s episcopal revelries, hoping that in my cups I did not perform some act contrary to the prohibitions of Leviticus 18:23.

Pulling back the sheets, however, I realise that the horse is not sleeping but dead and not a full animal but just a head. Evidently a prank pulled by my house guest Cardinal Ravinelli, cineaste and trickster, following an animated discussion about the plausibility of The Godfather.

Carefully setting the horse’s head to one side, I repair to my kitchen to peruse the periodicals. Therein I read that Liz Truss has promised that her government’s policy will be ‘Growth, growth, growth’.

St Paul’s cuntflake on the road to Damascus, with fucking what? What are we gonna subsist on in the Land of Fuck All you’re laughingly presiding over? What will people eat? Their unpayable energy bills, smeared with mud? The minced remains of frozen pensioners? Growth!? You are a fucking growth! A fucking malignant lump on the neck of the body politic! The only thing that’s growing under you is Labour’s lead in the polls, and given the sorry, spineless sack of button-eyed suet they’re led by, that’s fucking saying something!

Laura Kuenssberg interviewed the Prime Minister last Sunday, in which she expressed concerns about the ‘optics’ of a mini-budget which transferred large sums of money from the poor to the rich.

Wank a fucking wombat dry, ‘optics’? Everything’s cosmetic with you cunts, isn’t it? It’s not a mirage, or a piece of modern street theatre, or a David Blaine magic trick, it fucking is what it fucking is! ‘Optics’ my grey arse! You’re so fucking docile, Kuenssberg! Afraid if you say the wrong thing you might not get invited to the Spectator garden party? You’re half a yard up the Tories’ arse! And if you shone a fucking torch, you’d see Fiona Bruce wedged further up the sphincter!

Jeremy Clarkson has been ordered him to close down the cafe at his Oxfordshire farm, Diddly Squat, on the grounds that it is ‘incompatible with its open countryside location’.

You know, as I often remind my flock, in Luke 12:24 we read, ‘Consider the ravens’. Well, fuck the ravens for the time being. Consider Jeremy Clarkson. Every morning, he gets up, opens a car magazine and has a wank, irons his jeans, puts on his green wellies, takes a deep breath and thinks to himself, ‘How can I strive to my utmost to be an absolute prick today?’ Calling your fucking farm ‘Diddly Squat’ was reason enough for you to be run out on a rail and dumped in the first available ditch! You and your general presence in Oxfordshire are as compatible with the open countryside location as an open-cast uranium mine!

Finally, the Mail group is being sued by a group including Prince Harry, Elton John, Sadie Frost and Doreen Lawrence, for serious illegal newsgathering including allegations of burglaries and landline tapping.

Well, brothers and sisters, break out the gospel and join me in a chorus of ‘Oh Happy Day’! They’re gonna get sunk like the Belgrano, so just rejoice! The worst, meanest, Nazi-cheering, self-righteous, blustering, pinched-faced, hypocritical, censorious, upskirting, racist, downright fucking evil rag in Britain, not worth the shit you’d use it to wipe from your arse in a emergency, could be destroyed! You’ve conspired on a daily basis to keep us in our place through a toxic mix of petty spite, bullying paranoia and grovelling sycophancy! And now you’re going to be exposed for the criminals that you are and Paul Dacre will end his days as a prisoner’s bride!

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A confused millennial tries to… send a letter

AS A millennial, I don’t understand things the older generation are into like home ownership, Morrissey and penetrative sex. Today I’m trying to ‘send a letter’: 

Apparently, from Shakespeare’s day to like the 1980s, it was customary for people to communicate by ‘letter’. I’m quite into historical stuff, like my dad’s Blur CDs, so sending a letter seemed like a cool way to learn about the past. How wrong was I?

‘Letters’ are pieces of paper with messages on, and you can’t just download them from the internet. Even if you did you’d have to print them, which okay? They pre-date even texting and take several days to arrive, like the ravens in Game of Thrones. 

So I got a piece of paper and the problems started. Who was I going to send my letter to? There’s my mum, but I see her in the kitchen all the time. Zelensky’s cool, but he’s always being bothered by Brits with problems. So I settled for my girlfriend, Jenna.

I began by drawing emojis, then cut-and-pasted – this is something you can do by hand – part of the Wikipedia page on medieval torture, to bulk it out.

I felt I should include something romantic, so I wrote, ‘Thanks for wanking me off last week lol’. Made it a meme by drawing Garfield saying ‘Thanks for the wank!!!’ and that was sorted.

Was it fuck. Now you’ve got to put the letter in an ‘envelope’, which is like a large, paper cocaine bag, and you can’t scrunch it up into a ball, you have to fold it really precisely to make it fit, like origami. Then you have to write the address on it, and it’s really long with a postcode on, which apparently isn’t just a drill rap thing.

Worst of all is you have to put a sticker of the Queen on, which is morally wrong to me. They cost 95p. If you sent 20 letters a day that’s £19. It’s not like the Queen needs the money now she’s dead.

Fucking finally, you’re tweeting, but no. I still had to take it to a post box in the pissing rain. Then I stood by the letter box waiting for a reply until my dad came out pissing himself to tell me you don’t get a reply straight away. This is insane.

It’s been three days and I’ve heard nothing. Jenna must have dumped me. I’ve DMed Oaklyn, her best mate, to see if I can get a handie off her instead. I can’t believe this was how people used to communicate in the olden days. No wonder Romeo and Juliet split up.