The Archbishop of Canterbury on… RIP Jimmy Swaggart, man of God but mostly prostitutes

11th July 2025

WAKING with a hangover so toxic that when I vomit and my dog comes scampering into my room to eat it he drops dead on the spot, I reflect on the week’s events.

We learned this week of the death of former Conservative minister Norman Tebbit, aged 94. Shortly after it was announced, the suggestion was put to me that a service in his honour be conducted at the Abbey. I readily agreed.

Conservative politicians, friends and Tory grandees gathered en masse. I ascended the pulpit, took a large swig from a bottle of rum and orated as follows.

‘So, Norman Tebbit’s fucking died at long fucking last. Thought the cunt died years ago but turns out if you’re evil you live as long as a fucking Galapagos tortoise. Kissinger, Murdoch. You get my point.

‘You were, from the get-go, a piece of vicious yet respectable hooligan scum who made the lives of millions a fucking misery with your heartless Tory dogma. I’d have liked to have got on my bike and run right over your fucking ugly face, you racist, homophobic streak of ossified rat’s toss. We will now sing hymn number 57.’

The response in the Abbey was muted to say the least but the eulogy was being live-streamed over a tannoy system and the cheers from outside were plainly audible.

Reflecting with satisfaction on a fitting send-off, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Kemi Badenoch has complained about proposed wealth taxes, stating at PMQs that ‘this is something that will affect all our constituents’.

Fuck me badger style, you what? A wealth tax on people with assets of over £10 million affects all Tory constituents? I mean, that’s a stretch unless you’re talking about the constituency of Cuntley-On-Thames, isn’t it? Most Tory constituents are struggling to keep up monthly payments on their fucking greenhouses, not sitting on lottery winnings! Are you just being thick for a laugh now? And don’t worry, there’s no way Starmer will bring in a wealth tax because he’s crawled as far up the billionaires’ arses as you have! Look to your left, he’s there by the fucking lower colon!

Ed Sheeran has a new art exhibition, entitled The Cosmic Carpark Paintings, at the HENI Gallery in Soho. His paintings are in the style of Jackson Pollock.

Joseph fucking Mary, you are the biggest fucking cultural spacewaster of our times, aren’t you? You’ve already inflicted your fucking music and just-some-desperately-ordinary-guy schtick on us, and now you’re trying to import it into the art world! Is no space safe from your ubiquitous fucking blandness? ‘Ooh, it’s just spilling paint on a canvas, I could do that!’ you no doubt thought like every other pretentious pop idiot. Next time exhibit your paintings at the nearest rubbish dump for ease of disposal. That’s if they’ll fucking accept them!

Columnist Camilla Tominey has written in the Daily Telegraph that ‘the new Corbyn-Sultana party may be the most sinister Britain has seen in decades’.

God you are so right! They might try to retrieve too much shit out of the rivers! They might see to it that the workshy disabled get to travel to the dole offices in specially adapted Rolls-Royces to collect their benefits while management consultants struggle to pay private school fees! They might nationalise the sausages! ‘Sinister’ my mottled arse! We’ve got Little Englander fascism knocking at the door with Farage and his bigots but you’re terrified of Corbyn and pretty normal person Sultana? Stop wasting your time, Camilla. The Tory right won’t have to do a thing to fight off a left-wing party, because the fucking liberals will do the job for them!

Finally, it seems that American preacher and televangelist Jimmy Swaggart has died aged 90.

And what a man of fucking God you were! Filmed with a woman you were shagging just blocks from your church, caught with another in a car, discovered visiting a sex worker in New Orleans, arrested in your fucking Jaguar while driving pissed with a sex worker in the passenger seat… and all while making a shit ton of money raining verbal hellfire on us sinners! You’d have fitted right in in Trump’s ghastly, evangelical, brazenly hypocritical America where life is a non-stop grift, so it’s a shame you never got to hang out at Mar-A-Lago. But don’t worry – it’ll be a lot fucking warmer than Florida where you’re hopefully going!

A white home counties roadman 'as been chosen to be a bossman ball boy at da Wimbledon tennis ting

10th July 2025

FIFTEEN-year-old Active J, known in his detached home as Joshua Hudson, has been selected to be a ball boy at the world’s most prestigious tennis tournament, innit.

WAGWAN? Did fam see Active J on da TV? Man woz hinspirational. Parentdem is batshit for da tennis, innit. So dem fixed it for yours truly to be a ball muggle at da Wimbledon ting!

At first, man woz like, are you jokes? Active J ain’t no wasteman gopher, but man would be on da TV, so man sed bring it on, fam!

Da downside woz dat Active J ‘ad to wear a matchin’ Ralph Lauren ooniform wiv da other ball muggles, an’ white Babolat Jet trainers. Ew, man ‘ad sick in him’s mouth. Please forgive Active J, TK Maxx.

So when man swags on court da humpire sez take off man’s North Face hoody from under da muggle shirt, an’ man’s Yankees cap. Den da wasteman sez hempty man’s pockets, an’ put man’s phone, AirPod case, power pack, toffee popcorn vape an’ can of Monster on him’s big baby highchair. Bruv, you is bare pushin’ it.

In da game when da player woz ‘avin’ a sit down coz dem woz tired, one woz stressin’ wiv him’s tennis bat. Man sed it wozn’t him’s bat’s fault, bruv woz losin’ coz him’s trainers woz rank, innit. An’ man’s full drip woz all white, da negative hopposite to a bossman roadman.

Him sed it woz da rules for players to wear rank drip an’ white trainers. Active J sed don’t be a rule muggle an’ hasked him wot size him’s feet woz. Coz him woz da same, man got him Active J’s boxfresh black Airforce from da changin’ room, an’ hexplained dem is bare peng on da hastroturf. Grumpire sed him would allow it dis hoccasion. Wotever, bruv.

Oh, an’ if man wants to win at life, like Active J, ‘ave a chug on man’s toffee popcorn vape, an’ a swig of Monster. Watch an’ learn.

Den dem start hagain an’ a player does a toddler shot into da net an’ Active J ‘as to gopher it. But bein’ street, Active J does not sprint, but turns on da super-swag, picks up da ball an’ throws gangsta shapes gettin’ hacross. But den man saw him’s backup burna Cherry Bakewell vape on da court, dat must ‘ave dropped out of Active J’s muggle shorts when man did a bow of respect to da crowd.

Man could see da grumpire woz turbo-vexed so man sprinted out to rescue da vape, den da muggle player wearin’ man’s Airforce serves da ball at Active J’s head. Is you trippin’, bruv?

Active J woz shook an’ ‘ad to be carried off da court on a non-brand stretcher, innit. But man could hear ‘Active J! Active J!’ bein’ chanted. Man thought him’s head woz playin’ jokes, but it woz man’s gyal, Lady G, an’ dickhead Drilla, an’ da crowddem joined in. Man could see parentdem hidin’ dem’s faces wiv respect for Active J’s bravery.

Later, in da changin’ room da player dat took Active J down sed fanx for da trainers, coz him won da game. Him sed man woz da star of da show an’ told da TV hinterviewer dat we need more hinspirational young people like Active J an’ parentdem woz bare proud. Gassed, fam, gassed!