The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Rishi Sunak, the hypocrite's hypocrite

WAKING following a late evening that turned into a morning followed by an afternoon, I find myself at the wheel of a car that has pranged the gates of 10 Downing Street. 

I must admit I had been driving around London, albeit at a scrupulous seven miles an hour, for some time following a meeting with the British Methodist Episcopal Church which ended in karaoke, a drinking contest, a fistfight and no-holds barred naked wrestling.

A story is concocted involving a bystander who will be imprisoned for no more than a year as I am discreetly escorted back to my chambers to peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Rishi Sunak has asserted that immigration figures are currently ‘too high’ but that he has measures in train to reverse this trend.

Really? How about you fuck off yourself, set the ball rolling? Seriously, cunts like Enoch Powell were bad enough but the likes of you and Braverman gassing on like this, like turkeys complaining about nut roasts at Christmas, is unbelievable! Do you think the racists you’re pandering to wouldn’t be herding you on the fucking boats if they got their way? Does the fucking irony of this not hit you on the head like a anvil dropped from the top of a skyscraper on a daily basis? Basically, if you and Braverman had got what you apparently want back in the day you’d never have been let near the fucking UK, you stupid, short-trousered prick! Let any cunt who’s daft enough to want to come live in this burning, quasi-fascist shitheap of a country come! And, by the same token, get us back in the fucking EU so that every fucker who wants the fuck out of Britain, and there are millions of us, can fucking do so!

The death of Rolf Harris at age of 93 was announced this week.

Fuck me bandy, there’s the secret of a long life, also known as the Kissinger formula – be an absolute, remorseless, glassy-eyed cunt! Still, let’s face it, you’d have been wanking behind your fucking wobbleboard if it weren’t for you being, like Jimmy Savile, paedo by Royal fucking Appointment! Painting the Queen, for twat’s sake! What is it about the Royal Family and kids? If you actually fucked your dogs and horses they’d be a moral cut above where you are now!

Singer Tina Turner also passed on, prompting ‘Britain’s strictest schoolteacher’ Katherine Birbalsingh to tweet a picture of Ms Turner and her abusive former husband Ike with the caption ‘good times’.

Rat’s cocks in a barrel of vinegar served at a hipster pop-up, what the fuck? I mean, more specifically, what the actual fucking fuck? Either you’re the disgustingly evil cow of Hades, which would explain you speaking at the National Conservatism conference spouting your swivel-eyed fucking bilge and this is your devilishly contrarian idea of what ‘good times’ constitute for obedient wives, or more likely, you are thick as prize-winning pigshit! Either way, no fucking way should you be near kids! Go sit in the corner and wear the dunce’s cap you think schoolkids should still be wearing in the fucking 21st century! Never mind deleting your tweet, you should be deleting yourself from public life, you abomination!

Finally, Chelsea lost yet again this week with their expensive signing, Mykhaylo Mudryk, failing yet again to score. Mudryk was upbraided after posting video footage of an elderly man working out followed by a question mark.

Well, after that howling miss from three yards out you left us with a open goal there, didn’t you pal? Find out who this bloke you filmed is, put him in your shirt and see how he fares upfront – as well as you, I’d suspect, and a fraction of the fucking cost! Fucking Chelsea, eh? Spend a budget of both Iraq wars combined on your squad and get your arses kicked by fucking Brentford, a bus stop with a stadium attached! Tell you what, Chelsea, if you get relegated next season, and who’s to say you won’t, I’ll personally ring the church bells at the fucking abbey!

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday

They can't have Boris's pandemic texts because our love cannot not be stripped bare at a public inquiry. Also all the criminal shit

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady and Princess of Hearts

WOULD the letters of Romeo and Juliet be sent to a public inquiry? Cyrano and Roxane? Why are the WhatsApps of those lovers Boris and Carrie any different? 

Does Baroness Hallett, the Covid enquiry’s heartless chair, not remember we weren’t even married then? So our tender missives of adoration, our coos and kisses, our secret midday fucks against the fireplace in the White Room are not liable to subpoena? 

Because, among the flowerings of devotion between a man born to rule and his gentle, radical guiding star, there are more than a fucking few about the Chequers parties. And about 120-180 of my nudes. Lockdown was a difficult time. 

‘Fucking Rishi’s lawyers shopped me to the pigs,’ says Boris, from the private jet. I asked whose it was and he had no idea. ‘I’m not losing my seat. I’m PM again after this.’ 

‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘What about my texts? You’re over the Atlantic, can you do a Vardy and lose them?’ 

‘Not that simple,’ he says, over the distinctive sound of single malt gurgling into crystal tumbler. ‘They’re on the official phone, you see. Backed up.’ 

‘So they know about-’ ‘Chequers,’ he confirms. ‘Which parties?’ ‘Easter, the ABBA one, Spring Break, Mardi Gras, Cinco de Mayo, the lot. With guest list, photos and booze orders.’

For a moment I drift back to that Chequers summer. With the nation locked down and Special Branch sworn to secrecy, we partied into the silent nights. ‘Taylor Swift was right. This is why we can’t have nice things,’ I mused. 

‘Uh?’ he said. ‘Never mind. But can’t we be allowed to redact them? All my dewy, innocent protestations of love are on there. And my nudes.’ 

‘Not just yours,’ he says, just before the phone goes dead.