The Archbishop of Canterbury on… sign me up for the socialist nightmare of the 1970s, Kemi

2nd October 2026

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating its malevolent energy temporarily summons Lucifer, who glowers but then fades due to my holy countenance, or possibly my flatulence, I recall my most recent sermon.

My chief clerk had taken the initiative in its writing. ‘I believe we could save church time by using AI,’ he explained.

‘I have taken the liberty of recording some of your recent utterances and fed them into the computer. AI will then create a composite sermon based on your thoughts and feelings. The results should be downloaded to you within the hour.’

And so they were. I printed them off, and read out the AI summary from the pulpit. It ran as follows.

‘Fucking shitting twatsticks. Twats and arseholes. Arseholes and pricks. Shitehawks. Fucking twatting shitting cunts.’

I set aside the printout. ‘Dearly beloved, what you just heard was generated by AI. My message is this. Do not fucking use AI. No “Oh, but it helps me with basic documents”. No. Do not ever use AI. It is the hellspawn of evil rich bastards. It’ll kill humanity if it hasn’t dehydrated the fucking planet first. Here endeth the fucking lesson.’

The memory of the applause from the pews still fresh, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that prime minister Andrew Burnham has expressed his concern that Manchester City’s Abu Dhabi-based owners might sell up following the club being found guilty of gross financial malpractice.

Yes, won’t someone think of the fucking despots, eh? Mr Football Burnham’s first fucking thought is covering their arses the way he’s desperate to do for the shitting orangu-gibbon Trump. You desperate, toadying, tin-eared twat! Everyone’s baying for Manchester City to be busted down to playing Sunday leagues in Hackney Marshes, jumpers for goalposts and all that, and the perpetrators of this fraud fucking imprisoned! Any right-wing columnists terrified that Burnham is turning the UK socialist, don’t fucking worry! He’s shaping up to be another fucking bootlicker in the Starmer-Blair mould!

Ed Miliband has confessed at the Labour conference that opponents of Labour’s stance on Gaza had got it right, in a ‘mea culpa’ moment.

Yeah? So what are you fucking going to do about it? Withdraw our ambassador? Impose sanctions? Pledge to arrest Netanyahu if he visits the UK? Stop selling them arms to murder children? I mean, is anything going to eventuate from this, or, as expected, fuck all? Did you hope you could get away with making this statement, then quietly returning to business as fucking usual? I think we know the fucking answer to that!

In California, two Chinese grandparents are being held after shooting to death their son-in-law, a trans New York Times executive. Graham Linehan hailed them as ‘heroes’ who ‘may have saved some kids’.

Dear fucking God, you are one toxic pillar of complete cunt, aren’t you? Has your brain been completely eaten away by the fucking zombie monomania of transphobia? Whatever the details of this individual case you’re cheering on two murderers on the pretext that any trans person is a danger to children, for fuck’s sake! It’s no wonder everyone previously in your life wants nothing to do with you when you’re constantly posting the definition of fucking bigotry!

Finally, Tory leader Kemi Badenoch has berated Andy Burnham for supposedly wanting to take Britain back to the 1970s, ‘a time of more government control, more trade union control and no economic growth’, adding ‘There is a reason our country took a different course after that decade’.

Jesus fucking cunt on a stick, if there was a time machine to take us back to the fucking 1970s I’d be scrambling for a fucking seat! Job security! Affordable housing! Student grants! Nationalised industries not vital utilities in the hands of parasitic shareholders! No deranged billionaires fucking up life on earth! Since then we’ve been on a perma-descent into a fucked up free market hell and it’s still not good enough for right-wing fuckwits like you! And why are we listening to what the leader of the Conservative party has to say about anything? Why not the fucking Whigs? The Social Democrats? The Natural Law Party? You’re a fucking political relic!

My husband sent me a sketch of his member in the post: the wholesome bodice-ripping yarns of a tradwife

28th September 2026

By Emma Buckley-Hough, who firmly believes toe-rings are the mark of a whore

MODERN technology is remarkable. Thanks to the wonders of the printing press, I’m able to share the details of my lifestyle with a much wider audience than the village.

But as with any leap forwards though, it’s only a matter of time until perverts bend it towards their deviant sexual pleasures. Why can’t they do so in private while projecting a sanctimonious air, like normal people?

For example, I have recently been made aware of modern, free-wheeling spouses sending their wives lewd daguerreotypes of their genitals. These exhibitionist women then proudly display the images in the hidden folds of their mobile telephones.

I have never been so appalled while secretly poking around in Gilda next door’s device. Do these women not know that photographs are a trap conjured by the devil? That the souls of their husband’s members have been stolen forever?

The discovery, as ever, made me feel my usual tincture of despair and lust. Indecent photographs are obviously too risky for a God-fearing woman such as myself, but there must be safer alternatives like brass rubbing.

I discussed it with my husband, and for once he must have been listening to me. So imagine my surprise when a special delivery arrived for me the following day.

Drawn on vellum in his finest hand, there it was: an explicit sketch of my husband’s manliness. He’d added a few inches to its length and girth, but that’s just artistic license. I’m sure Michelangelo did the same with the statue of David.

But far from being aroused, I was annoyed. I had made no explicit request for an indecent sketch of his nether region and it was misguided to assume that I wished to receive one.

Thankfully, he explained later, I had been wrongheaded. It was not his Mr Perkins but a sketch of the Loch Ness monster, and it had been meant for a business partner, not myself. I felt lighter than a Suffragette after a hunger strike!

We made up and he took the offensive sketch away. Leaving me only to wonder what business partner would need such an item? Ah well. Men’s business, I suppose.