The Archbishop of Canterbury on… maybe learn to wear a pair of jeans properly before becoming an MP, Jezza?

17th October 2025

WAKING with a hangover so intense that for a few hours I grow an extra head that keeps tediously vowing to never drink again, I take on copious liquids and reflect on the past week.

The highlight was undoubtedly the annual ‘Swear Off’ between the Church of England and the atheist community, this year represented by Mr Stephen Fry and, naturally, myself.

We settled down at a table facing one another at the neutral venue of the Dorchester, surrounded by an audience and observed by a panel of judges, all expert British swearologists. We tossed a coin and Mr Fry elected to go first.

‘Prickwamblers!’ he enunciated, jowls wobbling with self-satisfaction.

‘Cunt,’ I retorted.

‘Botty ploppingtons!’ he came back. ‘Cunt,’ I said.

‘Muffmunchiness and farty woof woofs!’ he came back. ‘Cunt,’ I tactically responded.

At which point, with the score a straight 3-0 in my favour, the religious community were declared the victors. Mr Fry looked a little crestfallen but I had a few words of consolation for him.

‘You’re a fucking moron’s idea of an intellectual,’ I said. Which seemed, if anything, to depress him further.

The matter dismissed from my mind, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Prince Andrew is once again in the spotlight, due to extracts from Virginia Giuffre’s posthumous memoir in which she says Andrew ‘believed having sex with me was his birthright’.

You know, it’s some fucking achievement to have siblings who include that fucking spare part Prince Edward and that ruddy-faced, perennially fatuous, gullible pillar of useless fuck Prince Charles, and still be far and away the fucking worst before it even came out you were a fan of fucking sex trafficking! As for being the Queen’s favourite, well doesn’t that just show what a fucking oblivious moron she was? I hope you go to fucking jail and the other inmates use your arse for target practice!

It seems that Jeremy Clarkson is considering running against Ed Miliband for his seat in Clarkson’s home town of Doncaster.

Yeah, fucking right. Of course it’s a tedious stunt like everything Clarkson does, but look – you can’t run your own farm, you can’t even manage to wear your fucking jeans properly and you think you can represent a constituency? All you’ve got going for you is a fucking bottomless reserve of drawling arrogance! You’re the living patron saint of every lazy, complacent, white bloke who thinks they could be UK heavyweight champion if they just bothered to do some press-ups and put in a few hours of sparring every week! Go back to milking a cow, or rather failing to milk the cow and getting someone fucking competent to do it for you!

Following the recent death of Ozzy Osbourne, a ballet has been commissioned entitled Black Sabbath – The Ballet to celebrate the band’s music.

Oh, Jesus H Fuck, does everything, absolutely everything, have to be reduced to a shit stage show? There’s nothing wrong with keeping fucking categories separate, you know – heavy metal is heavy metal and ballet is ballet! Think anyone wants to hear Iron Maiden’s take on The Nutcracker? No, we’re not fucking interested, thank fuck! Still, it’s good to know we’re celebrating Ozzy in a medium that’s got literally f**k all to do with him!

Finally, the Trump administration is considering a radical overhaul of the US refugee system to give preference to English speakers, white South Africans and Europeans who oppose migration.

Wait, run that last one by me again? Europeans who oppose migration but are planning to migrate to the fucking United States of America? In other words, people who fucking oppose themselves? Or, to put it more accurately, racist people who think whites can move wherever the fuck they want without hindrance but people of colour should be kept captive in the fucking hellholes they’ve been born into? Ideally under the benevolent watch of copper-bottomed pricks like Tony Blair? You know what? Fucking do it! Do it and watch America drop to the fucking Conference League of nations as you get rid of the only people who keep your increasingly North Korean joke of a country fucking functioning!

Why can't the left accept Prince Andrew is allowed to have sex with whoever he wants at any time?

16th October 2025

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who understands one thing about the China scandal and it’s that Keir must resign

IN the olden days they called it droit du seigneur. It’s still on the statute books. Put simply, it means any Royal has the right to have sex with anyone he desires at all times.

Breathtaking in its simplicity, isn’t it? So obvious. So inarguable. Of course they are: what else is royalty for if not the complete dominion of a country’s subjects down to the genitalia?

Are we really a monarchy worthy of the name when we say ‘Sir, you are our supreme ruler anointed by God, head of our government, head of our church, but you’re not to touch me down there?’ Of course not. It is tantamount to treason.

Then why, given every sane one of us is in total agreement on the above, are we making such a bally fuss about Andrew?

What did the man do but exactly what a Royal bachelor should? He saw something he wanted to bang and he banged it. How is that any different from Charles and Camilla, from Victoria and Albert, from dear beloved Henry VIII?

In what circumstances would it be reasonable to turn this man – a priapic son of the blood Royal, capable of siring a dozen precious bastards a week – down? In no circumstances. Case dismissed and full golfing rights restored.

The truth is, left-wing censoriousness and bleating about consent has made Britain palpably worse. When our dukes could f**k anything that moved we were a world power. Now Saudi Arabia is. Hardly coincidence.

Look at Harry. Wouldn’t he, and we as a nation, be better off if he roamed the country, magnificent red mane blowing in the breeze, cock out, roaring drunk, shagging any daughter, livestock or sexy knothole in a supple young oak that took his fancy?

Unshackle Andrew. Give him a lifetime pass. And I, when he hammers on my door at 4am in his dress uniform, will lie back with my legs wide and think gladly of England, of its former greatness, and how it will come again.