The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Manchester twatting City

WAKING in a basket below a large, white balloon floating high in the stratosphere, I am dimly aware of the roar of incoming Sidewinder missiles. 

Recalling being invited to demonstrate my reputed competence as an aeronaut at a North American Christian Alliance meeting, I realise I must have imbibed the refreshments I packed for the journey, slipped into unconsciousness and drifted well off course.

Repelling three missiles with a counter-offensive of empty rum bottles, the fourth strikes home and I plummet, landing unharmed in one of the Great Lakes where I enquire of the federal agents who collect me whether I resemble a man of the Orient before demanding passage home.

Such is the US’s reverence for the clergy, I am soon heading across the Atlantic on private jet when I read that Robert Jenrick, minister for immigration, has opined that crime and knife crime in the UK would reduce with ‘better role models’.

Christ’s donkey’s big raging cock, role models? Like the sleazy gaggle of crooks, liars, cokeheads, pissheads, shitheads, grifters, gross incompetents, braying bullies, thickos, oily gammons, racists, fascist cosplayers, cock-up merchants and out-and-out disastrous twats who’ve been running the fucking country for the last 13 years? With you cunts providing the fucking moral example to the UK, it’s a wonder we’re not all suffering multiple stab wounds on a daily basis! You, a fucking Minister? You’re not fit to be Minister for Running Your Own Fucking Bath!

CBI president Paul Drechsler has said that high street giants and other top firms now talk with ‘warmth and optimism’ about Labour.

Let’s call a turd a turd: the ‘warmth and optimism’ these right-wing fuckfaces are feeling is that the party laughingly known as Labour will not say or do one thing to affect their fucking vested interests! Labour should be embarrassed that these are the sort of twats they’re attracting nowadays but of course, they’ll be fucking delighted! What would seriously make Starmer come in his pants is a endorsement from the Daily Mail! More in my fucking sermon this Sunday, ‘Reflections On Living In What Is Basically A One Party Dictatorship’. 

According to Brexit negotiator Lord Frost there is a secret plot to ‘unravel’ Brexit, in the wake of a summit meeting of politicians, business people and civil servants.

Why bother? When the Brexit you pined for is doing a perfectly good job of unravelling itself, given that even a fucking mole could see from a mile off that it’s idiotically unsustainable! As for the fucking ‘secret plot’, it’s about as fucking ‘secret’ as William hating Harry, the Pope’s virginity and the shitting habits of the brown fucking bear! Basically it’s a futile attempt to build some sort of shit sandcastle out of the enormous dump you and your idiot mates took on the country back in 2016!

Finally, it seems that Manchester City are under investigation for multiple alleged breaches of financial rules by the club from 2009 to 2018.

Get the cunting fuck in! I hope they fucking throw the book at this bunch of Saudi owned scumbags! I hope they break down their fucking trophy cabinet, confiscate and melt down every cup they’ve won since those fuckers took over! I hope they don’t just fucking relegate them, they bust them right down to non-league, raze their stadium to the ground and replace it with a patch of muddy wasteland where they have to play with jumpers for fucking goalposts against local pub teams! Of course, nothing of the sort will happen, they’ll be fined about five pence and the whole sportswashing shitshow will carry on as usual but let’s at least fucking dream, eh?

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'This is piss all to do with you. Frankly I'm ashamed to be resigning under such a shitey prime minister,' she said. 'Thank you, Nicola,' I replied

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most conciliatory prime minister

RELATIONS between Downing Street and Bute House have always been cordial, except when the phone rings late at night. ‘Is that the useless wee bastard?’ Nicola asks. 

‘Sorry to hear of your resignation,’ I say, turning the conversation effortlessly from Trainspotting-era vernacular to statesmanship. ‘Had you been mulling it over long?’ 

‘It’s fuck all to do with you,’ she slurred. ‘The resignation. I’m not having a little shit like you chalk this up as a victory. What I’m most ashamed of is resigning with you in charge.

‘But before you it was the mad hen, before her Boris, and I can’t hang around my whole career waiting for a Tory who isn’t an arsehole. The music stopped on you.’ 

The wise fighter, I learned from Dom Raab’s karate lessons before he discontinued them and kept the money, pays attention to what his opponent is not doing. What was my Scotch counterpart avoiding saying? That I could turn Scotland Tory? 

‘So it’s over,’ I said, not unkindly but with an air of finality. ‘For you, for independence, for the whole devolution project. There are 59 seats up for grabs, and I believe that under my leadership the Conservatives can contest every single one of them.’ 

This, perhaps, goes too far. She can’t answer. All I hear is sobbing, mixed with shrieking. My steely edge can be upsetting. Until she comes back on the line, and I realise it was laughter. 

‘You?’ Nicola says. ‘Win seats? Up here? You daft fucking weapon.

‘Flying in like a golf twat on your private jet to walk round a fishery? Raising our taxes and stealing our oil? Scotland would sooner vote for Edward Longshanks than your set of cunts.’ 

‘Actually, in 2024 we’ll be presenting a set of policies with significant mass appeal,’ I say, perhaps rashly, but to nobody. She appears to have hung up. 

‘Who was that?’ my wife calls. ‘The first minister of Scotland,’ I answer, while planning to misrepresent the rest of the conversation. ‘Mm,’ says Akshata, ‘that is about your level.’