The Archbishop of Canterbury on… Robert Jenrick, bigoted as a man twice his age

10th October 2025

WAKING with a hangover so intense my head is glowing green and I can actually see my skull when I look in the mirror, I drink an entire fish tank of water to rehydrate and reflect on my week.

I have decided, in keeping with ecumenical congruence, that the Church of England should introduce the Catholic practice of confession. I put in a request to Tony Blair’s office that, as someone who converted from Protestantism to the Catholic faith, he might be the first to confess his sins, as a gesture of goodwill between Christians. He agreed.

‘Bless me, for I have sinned,’ he whispered, through the gauze of the confessional box. ‘Last week, committing the sin of gluttony, I had an extra Weetabix for my breakfast,’ he said. ‘Also, I neglected to de-clutter my garage, which I have promised Cherie I would do for weeks.’

‘Fuck me, is that it?’ I replied. ‘That’s the shittiest confession I’ve ever heard. What about being responsible for about a million deaths in Iraq, shilling for some of the world’s vilest regimes and volunteering to oversee a territory decimated by genocide, no questions asked?’

‘Well, er, those are, er, complex geopolitical issues. I think people think I’m a decent guy.’

‘Like fuck you are. Your sins are not forgiven. As penance, you must say 12,000 Hail Marys and lower yourself into a vat of boiling piss. God was very specific about it, so get cracking.’

A solid start to a new practice, I reflect, before taking a light breakfast and perusing a periodical. Therein I read that former TV presenter Jeremy Kyle has blasted Gary Neville for taking down a St George flag put up by a racist on one of his developments. Kyle said Neville had insulted the working classes from whom he had made millions.

Fuck me with the splintered end of a snapped pogo stick, remind us how you made your millions, Jez! With a fucking faux-moralising TV show that got its ratings by goading working-class people into trying to beat the shit out of each other in a latterday Victorian freakshow! Which they had to cancel when someone fucking topped themselves! You know full well what the cunt who put that flag up was doing, you fucking ignorance profiteer! Fuck off! Then fuck on so you can fuck off a fucking second time!

The Labour Party is to focus on identifying ‘hate chants’ at pro-Palestinian demonstrations.

Yeah, you’d love to find a few of those as actual fucking evidence, wouldn’t you? You’ve found next to fuck all so far but don’t let that get in the way of your insinuations, you truth-twisting scumfucks! Problem is, even some vile chants are overshadowed by the obscenity of actually selling the arms, in record fucking quantities in September, to genocidal fuckers bombing hospitals and killing kids. You’re not just a minor disappointment, like every previous fucking Labour party, you’re straight up fucking evil!

Robert Jenrick paid a visit to Handsworth in Birmingham this week and expressed his disappointment at the lack of ‘white faces’ in the area.

Really? This is a plea for integration, is it? Are you sure it’s not some 1960s bigoted shite you pulled out of your racist fucking arse? Are you equally concerned that in many parts of the UK you never see a single black or brown face? Seriously, how come you’re into this shit? The average racist is some 80-year-old who grew up on the Famous Five, The Black And White Minstrel Show and golliwogs on fucking marmalade jars. You’re 43. You were born the year Michael Jackson released Thriller. What’s your fucking excuse?

Finally, Nick Clegg has said that asking artists for permission to use their work would ‘kill’ the AI industry.

Ooh, would it, Nick? So if artists weren’t ripped off wholesale, we’d run the risk of AI not striding remorselessly across vast fields of scrunched human skulls in its nihilistic quest to drown the world in mindless animated slop? Jesus, to think that vacuous fucking centrists placed their faith in you back in 2010, imagining you represented some sort of bright, shining, moderate, sensible future. Maybe it’s time for another ‘I’m sorry’ speech for people to remix. Only this time apologise for being a fucking soulless, careerist shill for psychotic, world-destroying tech bros!

Behind enemy lines: The gammon food critic's German city break

9th October 2025

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who thinks it’s no wonder the economy is f**ked given they put a woman in charge.

TIME for a city break. I’m no lover of the Hun, but I keep hearing good things about Berlin. So not being one to harp on about the fact that we kicked their arses twice at World Wars, I’m giving it a go.

It’s only a two-hour flight and I’m at my hotel in no time. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover they all speak decent English. Although it’d be stupid for us to be speaking Kraut after we won. Twice. Sorry, wasn’t going to mention that again. Still true though.

My hotel boasts of serving a ‘traditional German breakfast’: bread rolls, jam, honey and Bavarian white sausage. You wouldn’t see that advertised in Britain, too offensive for the woke liberati. Maybe the Nazis got a thing or two right after all.

Being a cultural type of guy, I’ve booked a sightseeing tour before lunch. Three hours trudging round in the pissing rain looking at old buildings. The Brandenburg gate, which is supposed to symbolise peace and unity. Pity they didn’t think of that before invading Poland.

Checkpoint Charlie’s a bit pointless now, and then there’s Hitler’s bunker, or rather a muddy, deserted car park. Slightly disappointing because I was hoping for animatronics of Eva Braun and Goebbels.

Cultural bollocks out of the way, I grab a spot of lunch. I try the most famous street food here, currywurst. It’s well named, it’s the worst attempt at a British curry I’ve ever tasted. A roll with a sausage and spicy ketchup? Ron sells those at his breakfast van off the ring road at home. About as authentically German as fish and chips. They even claim Berlin is the birthplace of the doner kebab. F**king cheek. What’s more traditionally English than a doner from the chippie?

A trip to the Berlin Icebar follows. It tells the story of a German Arctic exploration that became marooned in ice in 1869. You’d never see British explorers bollocksing things up like that. It’s f**king freezing and the included shots are tiny.

But it’s dinner I’m really here for. I find a nearby wirtshaus, or ‘inn’ if you don’t speak Teutonic. I peruse the menu. More bloody sausages.

There’s Konigsberger klopse, which is meatballs in a cream sauce with capers. Sounds disgusting. And sauerkraut, haha! Still sour over losing the Battle of Britain, no doubt. Sorry, there I go again.

I opt for the eisbein, or pork knuckle with pea puree. Not good. The pork knuckle has more blubber than Diane Abbott and the puree is like baby food. No match for British mushy peas.

I leave most of it, grudgingly pay up then head for the nearest kneipe, or ‘bar’ to us. Six pints later and now starving I try one of their so-called authentic German doners. Tastes exactly the same as the ones back home. Told you they’d nicked the idea off us.

Now I’m flying home and it’ll be a relief to set my feet down in good old Blighty again. Would I return to Germany for the food? Who do you think you are kidding, Mr Hitler?