The Archbishop of Canterbury on… Kirstie Allsopp, standing up for the little £2,000,000 homeowner

5th December 2025

WAKING with a hangover so intense I am able to conduct full body X-rays when I look in the mirror, I gargle a restorative and reflect on a week of immense theological significance.

It concerned last week’s sermon titled ‘The Abolition Of Prayer (A Fucking Waste Of Time If You Ask Me)’. I put it to my congregation thus:

‘Do you think if God exists, and you know my thoughts on that one, he gives a fuck about any of you? Seriously, do you think he’s swishing his Divine Guiding Hand to see that Arsenal beat Brentford? And what about the fucking Brentford fans who asked for precisely the opposite? Then there’s Auschwitz of course.

‘Basically, with the man-hours lost to prayer over the years we could have built time machines, eliminated cancer and constructed a vast, planet-wide protective dome with a full climate control system. Instead, you wasted your time leaning over your fucking beds on your knees in the hope that for the first time in human history an omnipotent deity would suspend the laws of physics to do you a fucking private favour.’

My proposal was carried unanimously and is now being adopted by other parishes. From this week on, prayer will no longer be a component of the Church of England.

With a sense of moral vindication, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Kirstie Allsopp has sallied to the defence of those affected by the new mansion tax, which she said was ‘punishing homeowners’ whose lavish properties improved the overall appearance of the UK.

Fucking yeah, won’t someone think of the seven-figure property homeowners persecuted by the worst excesses of fucking Keir Stalin? Of all the oblivious, self-pitying, permanently open-gobbed bollocks prattlers, Allsopp is one of the country’s worst! You’ve got millions of people shelling out most of their wages on rent for crapholes and your concern is for six-bedroom property owners in fucking Kensington! You need to fuck right off, then fuck right on so that you can fuck right off again, repeat indefinitely!

Spotify’s profits have risen 28 per cent and its CEO is worth $9.8 billion, some of which has come from ICE recruitment adverts. Meanwhile, they have laid off thousands of workers and pay artists $0.003 per stream.

Christ’s rotting cock, there’s a jarring reminder of fucking corporate evil to consider while you’re listening to Sabrina! And you’re still on fucking Spotify despite your reservations, aren’t you? It’s great, apart from billionaires feasting off the brains of lazy-arsed, indifferent listeners like, er, you. Time to get off it, maybe? People managed to listen to music before there was a fucking algorithm to tell you you liked the music you just liked listening to!

Nigel Farage has rebuffed persistent accusations that he has a racist past, saying any remarks he made were made ‘without malice’ and attacking the BBC as a despicable organisation.

Fuck’s sake, you don’t just have a racist past, you have a racist present, that’s the fucking problem, you unflushed turd in this toilet of a fucking nation! Second, you of all people attacking the BBC? That’s like fucking David Attenborough attacking the BBC! Like the Wombles attacking the BBC! The BBC fucking made you, like the fascist Build-A-Bear cunt that you are, for reasons known only to themselves! Without the BBC you’d be some fucking weirdo standing on a wooden box in a market town on a rainy Saturday blaring bollocks into a megaphone to an audience of fucking zero!

Finally, it seems Wes Streeting has ordered an inquiry into the recent surge in mental health diagnoses to see what exactly is driving it.

Seriously? And how much of our money are you fucking spending on this inquiry? Because for the princely sum of zero pence I can give you rock solid results about the cause of mental health problems: you! You! You and your fucking authoritarian, craven, fuck-all doing, nothing-solving, shiteheap of a fucking piss-useless government squandering the rare fucking chances Labour has to make a fucking difference! It ain’t fucking TikTok! It ain’t fucking ‘trans ideology’! It’s YOU, you beyond useless sack of cunts, driving us all to the brink of insanity with your refusal to fucking do anything!

Pissed on mulled cider and roast chestnut reflux: The gammon food critic's Victorian Christmas fayre

4th December 2025

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who doesn’t get why we can’t just stick illegal immigrants in stables like they did with Jesus.

I CAN’T be arsed with Christmas. All that fuss and build-up then it costs a shitting fortune and is over in a flash, like when I pay for sex. Plus the pubs only open for lunchtime, which is cruel to blokes with families.

Speaking of which I’ll be spending it on my own in the flat as usual. The kids and grandkids will be with the ex-wife and her new bloke in their massive house the divorce settlement meant I basically bought for them. Fine by me, saves bothering buying presents.

But I don’t want to look like a complete Scrooge, so I’m off to a ‘traditional’ Victorian Christmas fayre, only without the tuberculosis and child labour. There’s a direct train from Birmingham too, which means I can indulge in the true meaning of Christmas, getting pissed.

First impressions and it’s about as Victorian as my arse. There’s stalls selling all manner of festive tat – overpriced decorations for the tree I won’t be putting up, snowman bloody bobble hats, and you’re never more than three metres away from someone selling sodding fudge.

The street food stalls are even worse. There’s one selling samosas. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure the Victorians didn’t live in a country full of foreigners trying to shove their food and customs down everyone’s throats. Better times if you ask me. I doubt rickets was that bad.

The prices are hardly Victorian either. Eight quid for a f**king hot dog? They’re taking the piss! Then there’s a stall selling pulled pork. ‘I can pull my own pork, thank you very much!’ I quip hilariously, only to be greeted with hostile looks from everyone. I thought Christmas was a time for merriment? Miserable shits.

Still, there’s one welcome thing here: mulled cider. I’m worried at first that heating it up might have cooked all the alcohol off – I understand these things, I’m a food critic – but after downing seven plastic cupfuls I’m swaying and realise my fears were unfounded. Admittedly I’m topping mine up with a few shots of brandy from my hip flask, which is a Christmas tradition. For me.

After a couple of hours shuffling in the packed crowds, dodging the charity collection carol singers as I go, I decide to indulge in the one part of Christmas apart from the booze I’m partial to. Roast chestnuts.

I down a couple of bags to soak up the cider, burning my fingers and clumsily crunching on bits of shell as I go. Then I remember why I avoid them as the chronic heartburn kicks in. Belching like a warthog, I head off unsteadily to catch the train home.

Was it worth the trip? Not for a minute. Would I come again? Would I bollocks. Merry f**king Christmas.