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The Archbishop of Canterbury on… shit, Grandpa Cleese has been on the internet again

WAKING with a hangover so severe brain matter is leaking from my nostrils and blowing my nose lowers my IQ by 15 points, I reflect on the week’s events. 

Noting Donald Trump’s predilection for the Ultimate Fighting Championship, I invited him to an event I planned to stage in the grounds of the Abbey. The contestants in my own match would go by the monikers of Gorgeous George and Pectoral Pete. Mr Trump, as guest of honour, would watch the bout in a specially designed throne as the event was livestreamed across America.

Mr Trump agreed – he has a curiously high regard for me – and took his place on his throne as Gorgeous George and Pectoral Pete began grappling after a briefing by myself. These two oiled, muscular specimens in the skimpiest of trunks began wrestling, writhing, moaning, groping and thrusting their groins in what is known in MMA parlance as ‘humping’.

Mr Trump looked on appreciatively, remaining uncharacteristically wide awake. If there were any overtones, he was oblivious to them. 

Alas, footage of his delighted expression at what one religious right commentator described as ‘an outrageous display of the vilest sodomy’ has split his base and still further eroded his support amid the MAGA faithful. 

Ah well, it is God’s will, I think to myself, as I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Michael Grade, former Ofcom chair, has said he welcomed the launch of GB News five years ago in the name of ‘plurality’. Its critics, he believes, want to limit free speech to the ‘liberal, Islington consensus’.

Yeah, fucking right. Where do you get to hear ignorant, bigoted, racist, transphobic, pseudo-nationalistic, blatantly biased fucking drivel in the UK media, except in most of the fucking tabloids, Twitter, The Spectator, The Telegraph, The Times and on fucking BBC Question Time? When oh when will Nigel Farage get the exposure he deserves? And what’s all this ‘Islington’ bollocks? I thought for a moment it was the fucking 1990s again when this cliché was all the rage! Forgive me if I don’t agree with a superannuated, out-of-touch twat who thinks the biggest threat to Britain right now is Polly Toynbee having a fucking dinner party! 

The government is to introduce a blanket social media ban for the under-16s, which will include Twitter, WhatsApp, TikTok and YouTube.

And where did the fuckers announce it? Twitter. Which just about sums up these pseudo-pious, cowardly fucking wretches! Fuck forcing the psychopathic, riot-inciting big tech billionaires and trillionaires to stop pumping effluent into the fucking waterways of the public discourse, that might involve growing a fucking spine! No, instead prosecute parents whose kids are caught watching Thomas The Tank Engine on YouTube and throw them into cells shared with 70-year-old vicars’ wives convicted of holding up Palestine Action placards! Cunts!

Cristiano Ronaldo, 41, is still captaining the Portuguese national team, who made an unimpressive showing in their opening fixture against the Democratic Republic of Congo. 

Fuck me with the broken end of a spade handle, you’re still fucking playing? No one in Portugal has had the fucking balls to tell you to retire for the fucking liability that you are? I saw that game! They may as well have had the four midfielders carrying you around the pitch in a fucking sedan chair for all the use you were! I mean, what the fuck are you ploughing on for? It’s not like you’re gonna have to run a fucking pub when you retire! It’s like Donald Trump insisting on playing as fucking number 9 for the USA team! 

Finally, it seems that John Cleese has retweeted a claim that Muslims are calling for ‘a BAN of people eating Bacon during Praying hours (sic)’. As he shared the post, Cleese noted: ‘Respect is not a one-way street.’ 

Jesus H cuntrot, proof fucking perfect that it’s not the under-16s who need to be banned from social media, it’s the fucking over-60s! This utter fucking nonsense was quite obviously pulled from the racist arse of some Reform/Restore/EDL twat! No one is doing anything of the fucking sort, you senile, credulous arsehole! Just retire, and keep your pig-ignorant, upper-class twat racist thoughts to your fucking self! Your brain is as dead as a fucking parrot!

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I shagged that Andy Burnham, and he was rubbish

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who knows Trump will cheekily violate the Iran agreement the moment it’s convenient

ON the eve of the most important election of the last 400 years, it is finally time to admit my truth: I have had Andy Burnham, and his microdick went off after two thrusts. 

The location? Manchester, of course. By the bins round the back of indie nightclub 42nd Street. The date? Not sure exactly, but it was after one of his failed leadership bids. Which doesn’t exactly narrow it down.

I was young, gorgeous, yet to ripen into the voluptuous conservatism that comes only with age. He was dark, brooding, and without a doubt wearing mascara, I don’t know why he denies it, I thought Labour were all meant to be polysexual or whatever.

He sashayed over to me. I’ll never forget his opening line: ‘I’m really left-wing but pretend not to be. Fancy a drink? I’ll charge it to my constituency expenses. They’ll never know.’

Charmed by this display of unashamed corruption – my right-wing tendencies stirring even then – I accepted a porn star martini. ‘Under my rule, every 18-year-old girl will be a porn star,’ he said with a wink. ‘There won’t be any other jobs.’

‘Tell me more,’ I said, and he outlined his vision of the future: grooming gangs in every conurbation, Britain a gimp to the EU, the Pride flag branded on your buttocks or you’re not allowed to vote, and compulsory suicide for the over-60s with a punitive death tax.

Against my better judgement, I found my loins inflamed. ‘Is there somewhere we could go?’ I asked, ‘or are you married?’ ‘No idea,’ he replied, ‘and anyway it wouldn’t stop me. I’ll f**k anything that moves and yes, that includes beasts of the field.’

We made our way downstairs, Burnham ignoring several crimes because of the race of the perpetrators as we went, and out to the bins. Where he dropped his trousers and revealed the scale of the disappointment voters will face if they make him prime minister.

‘Is that it?’ I said. ‘Get ready, love,’ he answered and forced himself upon me. In less time than it takes a Labour government to betray their mandate, it was all over. ‘Don’t worry about contraception,’ he said as a parting shot, ‘my sperm’s weak because I’m vegan.’

That is the Andy Burnham I knew. The Andy Burnham it is still in the power of Makerfield’s voters to stop. Not that I’m trying to influence the by-election or anything, I just thought you’d want to know.

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