The Archbishop of Canterbury on… has Rod Stewart turned into your bigoted gran?

4th July 2025

WAKING up with a hangover so intense I see everything in a lurid shade of green for several hours until it abates, I reflect on another milestone in the history of the Church of England.

In the spirit of inclusivity that I hope characterises my stewardship, I decided to employ a talented fellow to render my Sunday sermons in sign language.

It was a remarkable debut. Mine was a spirited sermon, touching on various deplorable aspects of our times from Wes Streeting and Mumford & Sons to the phrase ‘I’m reaching out to you…’ and the word ‘holibobs’. I rose to high pitches of wrath, and this was reflected in my choice of language.

Thus the sign language interpreter was required to frequently make the ‘masturbation’ gesture, give the finger repeatedly, simulate oral sex and at one point had to bare his backside and break wind wetly.

The resultant skilled and animated performance captured imaginations, and, perhaps unsurprisingly, went viral. I am informed by the relevant agencies that my Sunday sermons are now the hottest ticket on the market, Oasis included.

With a wry smile, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that the UK chief rabbi, Sir Ephraim Mirvis, has condemned musical act Bob Vylan’s chant of ‘Death to the IDF’ as a ‘national shame’ and ‘Jew hate’.

Oh fucking come on, you’re no more the ‘chief rabbi’ than I’m the fucking ‘chief christian’! You don’t fucking represent all Jews, just one orthodox fucking sect so fucking bear that in mind! And it’s the IDF Mr Vylan hates, as would anyone who’s not fond of people who commit war crimes on a fucking daily basis! But then again, as a serial sucker of Netanyahu’s fucking cock and a sometime supporter of the campaign to drive Palestinians out of their homes on the West Bank to make room for psychopathic bigots from Brooklyn, a desperately cheap, vile shot like that is fucking nothing to you is it, you whiskery cunt!

Keir Starmer has told Chris Evans on Virgin Radio that he agrees with Ricky Gervais’s theory that the traditional left-right divide in politics is ‘dead’.

What utter, steaming, liquid fucking cowshit! The divide’s only dead to cunts like you and Gervais because you jumped over it a long time ago to become the punchdown transphobes you are today! It’s alive for plenty of the rest of us, but you keep telling yourselves you’re above all that as you drift away on an unmoored island of gross irrelevance. I’d like to think that deep down, alone in the night, when it’s just you and the ghosts of your dead consciences, you might wonder if you’re wrong. But that’s way too fucking introspective for tedious centrist twats like you!

Prior to his Glastonbury appearance, Rod Stewart opined that it was time for Britain to give Nigel Farage a chance. Social media was quick to highlight the similarity with his comments many years ago in support of Enoch Powell.

Stupid 1970s cunt! Personally it’s not hard separating the art and the artist here because I always hated both. A shrivelled scrotum of a human being who made the worst single ever, Baby Jane, and more recently has been churning out greatest hits pabulum including the worst fucking Glastonbury performance of all time! Seriously, it was worse than than your embarrassing granny dancing and chanting along to Come On Eileen with her knickers round her fucking ankles at a family wedding! And guess what? She fucking loves Farage too!

Finally, Laura Loomer, the far-right ‘personal advisor’ to Donald Trump, has tweeted enthusiastically about ‘Alligator Alcatraz’, a migrant detention centre in Florida’s Everglades. Alluding to America’s 65 million Latino population, she said: ‘The good news is, alligators are guaranteed at least 65 million meals if we get started now.’

Fuck me and double fuck me. It’s not some mentally ill vagrant on a park bench with her possessions in a shopping trolley who’s spouting this insane, racist fantasy shit. This is a woman with the ear of the most powerful man in the fucking world. Seriously, Americans, get out. Leave in trucks, hitchhike north, cross the Atlantic on makeshift rafts. Although you might not have to listen to Laura’s unhinged shit for much longer because she’s precisely the sort of MAGA fuckwit who’ll try and take a selfie with her arm around a ‘gator!

Five other beautiful world locations and the life events I plan to ruin them with, by Jeff Bezos

3rd July 2025

HELLO peasants. You can’t have failed to notice mine and Lauren’s recent understated wedding in Venice. And now you’re gagging to know what other tasteful events we have planned.

Here are five more social gatherings in incredible places my very deep pockets will be paying for in the coming decades.

My Icelandic birthday party

This coming January, I turn ‘sweet 62’. And I plan to do it in the beautiful, unknowable country of Iceland. The land of fire, ice and a massive piss-up with Katy Perry doing karaoke with Oprah. I’ll have to fly in my own seals to club because apparently that’s not allowed anymore, but no biggie. Plus I’m looking at repurposing the Northern Lights to spell out my name and form a giant image of my face. Apparently it will irrevocably damage the atmosphere. But think how it’ll look on Kim K’s socials!

Our Machu Picchu anniversary

To mark six weeks of marriage Lauren and I have booked out the entire 15th century Incan citadel. All it required was to threaten the Peruvian government that I won’t give them the next seasons of Clarkson’s Farm and Reacher. They soon caved. The ruins are a bit shabby, so I’m going to rebuild them into a city made from excessive Amazon packaging. Then once we’re done it means we can just burn it all down. Spectacular! I’m sure Peru will be happy to clean up.

Our Maldives divorce

Lets face it, after a year I’ll want to trade in my missus for a younger model. So we’ll consciously uncouple in the Maldives with a massive party. I’m still in negotiations, but the plan is to turn the entire Indian Ocean into one huge, drinkable Pina Colada. Admittedly we’ll need quite a lot of white rum to achieve this. But if anyone can it’s J-Bez. At the end I’ll chuck her with a cheque for a few billion, ignore her complaints that it’s not enough, and escape on one of my waiting mega-yachts with Lauren Mk. II.

The birth of my clone in Pompeii

Fresh from broadcasting my colonoscopy in Saint Peter’s Square in Vatican City – £2.49 to rent on Prime or £3.49 for HD – I will head for the Amalfi Coast. By now, my plan to clone myself will have borne fruit in the form of a mini bald Bezos. We’ll hollow out Vesuvius and go full evil mastermind. I’ll also clone some dinosaurs like in that movie, I forget its name. Sure, I might unleash a hideous T-Rex prototype which drops dead after eating 17 of my staff, but you’ve gotta try new things. The event will culminate in my clone being released from its incubation egg and my future bloodline secured. If you ignore my four actual kids.

My retirement at The Grand Canyon

In the future Amazon’s growth will have turned the earth into a scorched wasteland where all the money is mine and the plebs fight each other for the few remaining natural resources. But that doesn’t mean I can’t throw myself a decent retirement bash. I’ll fill the Grand Canyon with monuments depicting each of my life events, and that will be the setting for a party is attended by my now 76-strong ‘family’ of cloned offspring. After a final rousing speech I shall step into my Blue Origin Mk. 34 rocket and be ceremonially blasted into the Bezos-sphere where I will rule as your sun god. So just a quiet do.