The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Suella sodding Braverman

RETURNING to consciousness naked and face-down in a pool of my own bodily fluids in the nave of St Paul’s with Pope Francis standing over me, I am pleased to realise this is all a bad dream. 

Awaking in reality I am relieved to find that I have merely voided my bowels, commonplace for gentlemen of my advanced years, though in this instance I was sharing a bed with my colleague the Bishop of Durham.

Hosing myself down, I leave him be and repair to my chambers where I learn that Suella Braverman garnered quite a few votes in her quest to lead the Conservative party.

Holy Christ on a chocolate fucking cockstick, how in fuck’s name did this ghastly, pigshit-thick, rampant streak of malice ever ascend to fucking attorney general? Who did she have to beat off to get the job? Was it down to her and a basket of root vegetables? Because the latter would be preferable to a deluded psychopath bent on us joining Belarus and Russia as the only countries deranged and evil enough to quit the European Court of Human Rights! What happened to the ‘wets’ in the Tory party, eh? Those flabby-faced lumps of roast beef in pinstripe? Where have they all fucked off to? These days, the Tory party’s as dry as the late St Rose of Lima’s fanny!

Alan Sugar has complained about coverage of Euro 22. Vexed that all of the commentators were women, he demanded that some male commentators be introduced into the mix.

Does this pube-faced sack of goose shit have no-one in his fucking life to tell him when you’re talking a barrel-load of elephant bollocks? Anyone? Because seriously, you hawing cretin, you need someone to stop you showing yourself up as a decrepit Triassic sexist every time you fucking speak. You’re good with machines, aren’t you? Invent an own-arse kicking machine that activates every time you talk out of it!

Keir Starmer was taken to task by Andrew Marr this week on LBC for abandoning the pledges he made when elected leader of the party.

Fuck me sideways, as I said to the actress, he flayed you alive! Stitched you up like a fucking 1930s football! Andrew Marr! That’s like being eaten alive by a fucking gerbil! But then you are a lying, unscrupulous floater in the bowl with no more business leading the Labour Party than Barbara fucking Cartland, so I guess you were easy meat even for a puny little herbivore like Marr!

Finally, it seems that Donald Trump may face criminal proceedings for his business activities and role in the Capitol Hill riots.

Yeah, well, I’ll need to live to be fucking 135 years old to see that happen, thanks to the dynamism of the American legal system, but with God’s grace I will and I’ll run down Westminster with my cassock over my head and my cock out the day it does! I hope they send you all the way down the river, you revolting, tiny-handed, pouting fatberg! I hope they make you share a cell with a seven-foot mountain gorilla with a sexual penchant for senile, narcissistic arseholes! You are the cunt to end all cunts: King Megacunt the Last!

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Trainspotting: A wee bit overrated, ken?

TRAINSPOTTING the movie was a phenomenon, selling posters, soundtracks and Irvine Welsh DJing in clubs. But was it any fuckn good, aye? 

The worst toilet in Scotland

Renton’s forced to use a vile bookie’s toilet, though with grey shit, loses his suppositories and dives into an undersea world. What was director Danny Boyle’s point in including this jarring aquatic fantasia? What was it saying, symbolically? Was the deep artistic reason that it looked cool?

The baby

Okay, nobody was watching Trainspotting for Jurassic Park-standard effects, but your most enduring memory of the movie is quite likely a very fake baby moving along a badly-concealed track in the ceiling. Top tip: darkest nightmares are more effective if they aren’t hilarious.

The dialogue can be a problem

The nightclub scene where all the dialogue’s subtitled? For some viewers, especially Southerners and Americans, it would have helped if that were the entire film. Understanding powerfully vernacular Scottish can be a stretch.

Definitely choose heroin

It was claimed at the time the film would encourage heroin use. Bollocks. The audience was all on E. But it does suggest smack as a fantastic lifestyle choice, allowing Renton to cement lifelong friendships, shag Kelly Macdonald, and look cool in snakeskin print jeans rather than an utter cock.

There’s no plot

The lives of heroin addicts are rather plotless. There’s no holy quest for an object, except for smack every single day. But still you’ve got a film where essentially nothing happens until Tommy dies and everyone lucks into a fortuitous drug deal right at the very end.

The maths at the end

Renton steals £16,000 from his mates, gives Spud £4,000, and legs it to Amsterdam. Even in the 90s the cost of travel, hotels, a flat in Amsterdam etcetera would very soon leave him with piss-all. If they’d trebled the sum it wouldn’t have been troubling us to this day. And if you’re looking to get off the smack, why Amsterdam? Instead of, say, Zurich?