The Archbishop of Canterbury on… how I shall be telling Halloween to f**k off

WAKING up with a hangover so intense that my head changes colour from green to amber to red at regular intervals, I take a few restorative sips of water and reflect on the week’s events. 

I accepted an offer to host tech entrepreneur Elon Musk at a private audience. Mr Musk fears, from afar, that Britain is in danger of collapse as a result of migrants and Muslims who are turning our country’s cities into ‘no-go’ areas.

I greeted Mr Musk as he stepped out of his car at Westminster Palace.

‘Hi!’ he says. ‘I’m -’

I immediately body slam him to the pavement, bloodying his forehead in the process. 

‘Apologies, Mr Musk,’ I say. ‘But it was for your own safety. I fancied I saw a passing migrant in the corner of my eye. You are right. We in London live in permanent fear of brown-skinned invaders, ever since Sadiq Khan gained total control of London.’

‘Gee, I never thought…’

‘Oh my word, here comes a Muslim!’ I cry, as a person of colour approached along the street. I immediately bundled him into a double-doored coal bunker at the front of the Palace.

‘You’re safest here. I’ll get you some bread and water as soon as I can. I’d get you other food but it’s all foreign, you can’t trust it.’

Upon which I bolted the doors shut and left him to it, attending to other matters. I daresay he is still in there, which would account for the occasional hammering drifting up from the streets. As for now, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Reform MP Sarah Pochin has said it ‘drove her mad’ to see a high proportion of minorities in television adverts, instead of ‘white families’.

Jesus H Cuntache, of all the things to worry about in this country you’re mostly vexed by adverts featuring black families pushing trolleys out of fucking Tesco? For decades in this country you never saw a single black or Asian person in any fucking advert! Minorities shopped for shit the same as everybody else, but then they turned on the TV and found themselves fucking invisible! And I bet you were completely alright with that! Frankly I’d see a doctor if you feel threatened by a black family buying f**king Hobnobs!

The Daily Express has revealed that the affectionate nickname for former prince Andrew among below-stairs staff at Buckingham Palace was ‘the cunt’.

Hahaha, you can fucking keep that title! And I bet it wasn’t just that! Like fucking Michael Winner reviewing restaurants, I bet he fucking missed the piquant taste of a brown Windsor soup whose tureen hadn’t been generously pissed in by staff who despised his arrogant manner and – alleged – fucking nonce guts!

A botched crackdown on benefit fraud has seen a woman have her child benefits stopped after she booked a flight to Oslo for a wedding, but never went, causing the HMRC to somehow believe she’d emigrated.

Roast my cock among the chestnuts, this is thanks to the fucking ‘Labour’ government focusing all their efforts on benefit claimants to appease the unappeasable Daily Mail, resulting in a mass of fuck ups like this! Fuck’s sake, Labour, grow a fucking spine, grow some balls, grow a fucking brain and realise that at some point you’ve got to dare to raise taxes on a tiny minority of avaricious psychopaths hoarding fucking stupid amounts of wealth! But no, better to squeeze those with fuck all money anyway. What next, a ‘crackdown’ on them buying fucking food?

Finally, tonight we celebrate Halloween, during which we are supposed to hollow out pumpkins and dress as skeletons and so forth. 

Sadly, I am of the view that Halloween is absolute cunting shite! Compulsory enthusiasm gone fucking insane! I don’t chuckle at the word ‘spooktacular’. I regard the pumpkin as being as superfluous to the vegetable kingdom as the turnip! The charm of ‘trick or treat’ diminishes when it involves a bunch of pissed-up 15-year-olds knocking at your door with menaces – and believe me, they’ll be getting a bucket of boiling water if they try anything at my gaff! Yes, my least favourite day of the fucking year, and that’s despite stiff competition from New Year’s Eve! At least with Halloween Jools Holland has nothing to fucking do with it!

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Your astrological week ahead for October 25th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

“Squawk! Honestly, this has never happened to me before!” “Ignore the parrot. I consistently achieve erections.”

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You miss 100 per cent of the shots you don’t take. And 100 per cent of the shots you do. You’re a f**king useless striker, Terry.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Lovely time of year. Mist, autumn colours, teenage boys out harvesting magic mushrooms for the long, psychedelic winter to come.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

People shout ‘eat a bag of dicks’ without even considering the difficulty of first collecting same.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

No, your mutt is not a ‘rescue dog’. You’re thinking of Paw Patrol.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Seeing the stars makes you feel small and insignificant. So why was Sir Patrick Moore such an arrogant, self-important twat?

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

In an alternate timeline an agriculturally-themed soft porn film called Blue Harvest was the biggest movie of 1977 and history was better for it.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Do you even like coffee if you can’t dismantle an Italian cafeteria blindfolded like Private Pyle in Full Metal Jacket?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

“So… you’re still living in the caravan?” “Yeah, we prefer it to the house now. If you think it’s such a symphony of light and negative space you f**king live in it, Kevin.”

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Lots of emergency tracheotomies on TV these days. Peppa Pig had one on it last week. Suzie Sheep swallowed the lid from a bottle of cheap and nasty cider. Daddy Pig grabbed a rusty kitchen knife. Blood everywhere.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Jesus, take the wheel. No, take it. F**king take it, my phone’s ringing.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

About to log out for your holiday, you remember and sit back down to write your out-of-office. There. Now if anyone emails, they’ll get the response ‘I’m sorry. This pussy don’t pop for you.’