The Archbishop of Canterbury on… let's hope Tory voters like wiping arses, eh, Cleverly?

23rd February 2024

WAKING up in a septic tank in a pool of urine not exclusively my own, following a sequence of events with which I shall not detain you, I wearily clamber out and take stock of recent events.

It seems that voices within the Church of England ecclesiastical authorities have suggested that my weekly sermons at the Abbey be prefaced with ‘trigger warnings’ to alert churchgoers to ‘violent language and sexual swear words not used in polite company’.

Stunned, I retorted by return of email as follows: ‘Fuck’s sake, you bunch of skirt-gathering, lily-livered fucks, if this was something actually fucking offensive, like an old episode of Dad’s Army going on about ‘fuzzy wuzzies’, I’d understand, but this is our rich and poetic fucking Anglo-Saxon language that predates fucking Chaucer, so fucking well fuck off.’

The matter settled, I repair to my chambers, there to take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that home secretary James Cleverly wishes to ban overseas care workers bringing dependants to this country.

Fuck me on the fucking sideboard, you people get more vindictively racist by the day, don’t you? You think this is gonna fucking fly with your core voters? Every day more and more of them are counting on underpaid care workers to wipe their arses, because their own fucking families are too busy waiting for them to die and hand over their inheritance to fucking do it for them!

On the television set, I see that Quentin Letts, Daily Mail sketch writer and author of an upcoming book entitled Stop Bloody Bossing Me About, has weighed in on the issue of the menopause. He explained that he fully understands the condition due to suffering from occasional painful knees and sometimes requiring a nap following a surfeit of wine.

Oh my sacred fucking fanny, there must be some women on hand in your pompous, pampered little life to inflict the pain you deserve for this mansplaining bollocks with a kick in the aforementioned bollocks? Hurty knees! A fucking hangover! Talk about always seeing the small picture! You are an absolute waste of fucking space that could be put to better use staring pointlessly into, you absolute piss troll of a twat!

Secretary of state for business and trade Kemi Badenoch is involved in another row, this time with Canada, which has denied her claim that trade talks are continuing and have not broken down. She is tipped to be the next leader of the Conservative Party.

Roast my cock and put it in a fucking artichoke salad, who do you think people are gonna believe on this one? The country of Canada, or Kemi Badenoch, who, every time she opens her mouth, makes actual hairy, sweaty fucking testicles tumble out? Next Tory leader? I can well believe it, because with each iteration they get fucking worse. What will the next one after her be like? A bright blue parrot on a fucking perch blowing dog whistles 24 hours a fucking day? Fuck!

Finally, recent Trident tests have shown that the nuclear deterrent is malfunctioning, causing a missile to go off course and veer in the direction of the US. Defence minister Grant Schapps has offered ‘assurances’ that such a mishap would not occur in an actual war.

Did he fucking now? If these things are ever fired then we’ll be sizzling fucking radioactive toast! We’ll be too busy being incinerated to give a shit whether our retaliatory shots took out St Petersburg. Maybe the takeaway from this is that these things are a colossal fucking waste of money and since we’re all about not maxing out the fictional credit card these days, maybe we should get rid? Still, in the meantime you can’t do much more for nuclear disarmament than plopping them in the fucking sea.

Heaven is a massive slab of meat off a cow's arse: The gammon food critic visits a steakhouse

22nd February 2024

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks Question Time might be worth watching if Fiona Bruce had more cleavage on show

I F**KING love steak. Nothing more British than getting stuck into a huge chunk of cow meat with a pile of our greatest invention apart from the Spitfire, chips.

It’s good for the environment too. You know those massive methane farts cows stand around pumping out all day, destroying the ozone layer? Soon stop once they’re dead and under the grill. You won’t see that in our woke vegan media.

So it’s my birthday, and I’ve a celebratory table-for-one booked at a nationally popular steakhouse. I get some funny looks as I sit down on my own. Haven’t people seen a divorced man eat alone before?

I won’t give the steakhouse the publicity of naming them – not when they curtly refused me a freebie – but it sounds a bit like Killer and Martyr. Which I guess is more appropriate from a cow’s perspective.

I order a beer. At over a fiver for a bloody Peroni it’s no match for Spoons, but it’s my birthday so I treat myself to a few.

For a starter I go for prawn and avocado cocktail, picking out the avocado. I’m not eating that snowflake shite. It’s okay, but no better than the couple-of-quid plastic potted version in Tesco.

Then the main event. I briefly ponder the Black Angus filet mignon, but decide two small fillets served rare at nearly 40 quid is taking the piss. Besides, in my youth I once drunkenly found myself face-first between two curtains of beef with blood present, and I’m not doing that again.

Ribeye? Full of fat. 8oz sirloin? Better, but still nearly 30 quid. I go for my favourite, prime rump. A 7oz slab of Daisy’s arse for under 20 quid. Sorted.

I eschew the onion loaf and balsamic-glazed tomato it comes with, order chunky chips instead of salad – do I look like Bugs Bunny? – and peruse the sauces. I skip the three peppercorn and ‘classic’ bearnaise – if I wanted French sauce I’d ask them to put some garlic and a beret in a blender – and ask for Colman’s English mustard.

I opt for medium rare. It’s not bad in all fairness, and without all that shit on the side there’s room for dessert, sticky toffee pudding, obviously. It’s as rich as my ex-wife after the divorce, but no step up on the frozen ones from Iceland.

Stuffed, I enquire as to the chances of having a last Peroni on the house as it’s my birthday. They say no. It was only a matter of time before they start banning alcohol.

I pay up, stagger to the door and head home for a celebratory birthday wank. I recorded three hours of an adult channel on VHS years ago, so it’s free porn on tap in the flat. I’m not stupid.