The Archbishop of Canterbury on… how long till the next Tommy Robinson Crowdfunder?

WAKING with a hangover so monstrous I must clench my buttocks to prevent myself excreting my liver until the moment of crisis passes, I reflect with no little irritation upon a new appointment.

His name is Parsons, my new private secretary. He has been suggesting that as Archbishop I adopt a more religious attitude in relation to my role. He has been getting altogether above himself in his pestering.

I am just in the process of mentally composing a two-word response to his latest email in this regard – ‘Fuck off’ – when the lights to my bedchamber suddenly flicker mysteriously, brightening then dimming as I become aware of a figure at the doorway.

‘Repent ye!’ intones the figure. ‘For I, Christ your Lord, am your Messiah and saviour. Acknowledge me as such or face an awful reckoning.’

Bleary-eyed, I contemplate the backlit figure who does indeed bear the eerie semblance of Jesus. I step out of bed and approach him. It is a moment of truth. I stand face-to-face with him, stare into his water-blue eyes – and yank off his beard.

‘This is your most pathetic stunt yet, Parsons!’ I boom. 

‘But Your Grace, since nothing else works I thought -’

‘That you would dress as Jesus to con me into the existence of God?’ I said. ‘Do fucking better, shithead!’ Upon which I cuff him roundly on the head, sending his fake Jesus wig flying and off and him scuttling away. 

The matter dispatched, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Bob Geldof, of Live Aid fame, has taken up cudgels for the people of Gaza, accusing the Israel Defense Forces of ‘lying’ about their plight.

Fuck me till my eyes bleed, you got right on the fucking case there! Mr Outspoken Champion Of The Oppressed takes a mere 20 months to haul his arse off the fucking fence and take a lead in saying what’s been fucking obvious to everyone else for fucking ages! Thanks a bunch for your fucking leadership, Saint Bob! But don’t think you’re front of the queue, get to the fucking back of the line among the rest of the wretches belatedly changing their tune now that it’s looking really, really bad for you hitherto IDF-ignoring cunts! Maybe you’ll be joined in six months’ time by your mate Bono once everyone’s dead and the fucking coast is clear to say something!

Mixed martial artist Conor McGregor has lost his appeal against a jury’s finding against him in a civil sexual assault case.

Oh well, there you go! Following the fucking Donald Trump playbook, that clears the fucking way for you to be elected president of the Irish Republic! Because the one thing about a knucklebrained, nasty, power-obsessed fucker like you that’s smaller than your dick is your sense of fucking shame! I mean, the the fact that this could actually come to pass is further proof that the 21st century is the shittiest century since the fucking 11th!

Stephen Yaxley-Lennon, the English Defence League founder whose unreal name is Tommy Robinson, is being sought in relation to the assault of a man at St Pancras station. He has just arrived in Tenerife, Spain. 

And given Tommy’s fondness for them, can it be long before a fucking Crowdfunder follows, grifting ackers from his fucking mug followers who make Farage fans look like shrewd financial sceptics? He’s already had to stump up for his flight to Tenerife, and despite endless accusations of dipping into earlier funds, it’s as safe as putting money in a fucking ISA for dense Tommy fans! Thank fuck fascism is led by fascists, I say, thick, recklessly violent fucking fascists, because if fascism were led by non-fascists we’d be living in a fucking fascist state today!

Finally, Camilla Tominey has written in the Telegraph about the new party launched by Jeremy Corbyn and Zarah Sultana: ‘Something has actually gone seriously wrong with British society, if a party such as this could poll at 18 per cent.’

Hahahaha, it’s a shambles but you fucking people are shitting it, aren’t you? Cunts like you have been asking why the poor don’t just eat cake for so long and getting away with it, and now your fucking febrile imaginations are haunted by images of being carted to the guillotine in tumbrels and having your fucking heads lopped off in front of rows of cackling old women knitting away! The only fucking thing wrong with this country is that a party stating the bleeding, urgently fucking obvious is only polling 18 per cent! Why the fuck isn’t it 98 per cent?

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday
privacy

Five English towns I would rather not be given the freedom of, by Sarina Wiegman

WINNING the Euros a second time round means your success-starved island nation is forced to go to even greater lengths to show its gratitude. But please don’t bother giving me the ‘freedom’ of these places: 

Luton

Top-level football management isn’t all assessing the possession-based football of Aitana Bonmati and her Spanish mob on TV. You’ve got to have a life too, so I’m an avid viewer of 24 Hours in Police Custody. However that means there’s no way I’m being the poster girl for a town full of robbers, drug dealers and murderers. I’d rather move back to Holland and put up with the f**king mice in clogs.

Grimsby

A dour dock town with the whiff of cod and desperation. Back home I once went out with a fisherman from Volendam who stank of smoked eel. I promised myself: never again. So no medieval rights to Grimsby, please. I mean the clue is in the name. It’s like calling somewhere God This Is Going To Be Awfulville.

Morecambe

I know not to step on another sporting icon’s turf and Morecambe is Tyson Fury’s borough. If I saw him on the promenade our competitive natures could easily spill over into senseless violence and I’d drop him with my left hook then bring Chloe Kelly from the bench to put the boot in while he’s down. Also I hear Morecambe is all faded seaside glamour and the whole place sizzles with underlying menace. And the seagulls are as big as pterodactyls. So it’s a hard pass from me. 

Coventry

Coventry was flattened by bombs in World War II – and I’m not sure you can tell the difference today, hahaha! But seriously, I can’t understand a word the locals say and that’s coming from a Dutch person. When I walked down the street in my trademark white shirt and slacks, several locals asked what I was up in court for. For that Coventry must pay the penalty of not giving me a symbolic right to trade in the town square. But let’s not talk about penalties. We were dangerously close to f**king up in classic disappointing England style.

Slough

I’m from the land of tulips and windmills, not the land of roundabouts and dog shit. As I said, I don’t just watch endless footage of how the Italians counter-press. I’ve seen every episode of The Office and the Christmas specials. David Brent isn’t merely hilariously inept at judging social situations. His management techniques have been proven not to get results. And that is something I cannot endorse.