The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Sunak's heartbreaking tale of growing up without QVC

WAKING with a hangover so thumping I expect a gorilla’s fist to come bursting out of my cranium at any moment, I reflect on the meeting that led me to drink.

Having met Rishi Sunak I was now obliged to have an audience with the leader of the opposition Sir Keir Starmer, who at least arrived punctually.

‘So,’ I said, peering at this curious living mannequin, ‘How do you intend to mend the nation’s public services should you be elected prime minister?’ ‘My father was a toolmaker,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ I replied. ‘And the NHS. You don’t intend to privatise the NHS, do you?’ ‘My father was a toolmaker,’ he said. ‘Okay. And how about taxing the wealthy?’ ‘My father was a -‘ ‘Say “My father was a toolmaker” one more time and I will be forced to strike you,’ I informed him gravely.

‘My father was… my father… made tools.’

I looked up at the high ceiling of my chambers as if spotting something unusual. As Mr Starmer instinctively turned his head upward also, I brutally smashed him on the chin with my staff, leaving him unconscious on the floor in a pool of blood as he rightly deserved.

That memory expunged, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Rishi Sunak, when asked if he was deprived of anything as a child, replied ‘Sky TV’.

Fuck me round the corner and back, you fucking what? Sky TV? Are you seriously telling me the full extent of the harrowing misery of your Dickensian upbringing was that you didn’t get to watch the fucking QVC channel? You are pulling my fucking penis! The reason you didn’t get Sky isn’t poverty, it’s that your parents were too snooty to own a satellite dish! Still, at least as a kid you got to see your beloved Southampton play at St Mary’s, a stadium they didn’t fucking move into until you were in your early 20s, you lying twat! And trust the silly cunt opposite you to jump on the bandwagon, saying he didn’t have Sky either. He grew up in the fucking 70s, him having Sky would have been as weird as having a fucking flying saucer!

England lost 1-0 to Iceland last week in a friendly. Most prominent among the defeated players featured on the back page of The Sun and other news outlets was Arsenal’s Bukayo Saka, although he only played 25 minutes and is recovering from a groin injury.

Gee, I fucking wonder what it is about Bukayo Saka that caught the Sun’s eye, as opposed to fucking Harry Kane, whose banjo steered high and wide of the cow’s arse more than once in front of goal, or that piss-streak of pop-eyed uselessness, Phil Foden? I think we all fucking know. Look, Saka was fucking useless, they all were – never mind a groin injury, he should have been carving up that Iceland defence with a fucking broken leg. But considering it’s 2024, any chance of you tabloid cunts dialling down the blatant racism slightly?

It is mid-June, and with temperatures set to soar to 14 degrees, I have advised my parishioners to keep well wrapped up and the central heating on.

If there’s any kind of God, bits of paper should be fluttering down all over the fucking country from the general direction of Heaven with ‘IOU ONE SPRING’ written on them. This time last year I was out starkers on my fucking balcony getting my bollocks roasted. This year it’s like fucking Game Of Thrones or something! Except we’re actually begging for dragons to breathe fire on our cities to warm them up a bit! I’d suggest praying for better weather, but we all know that’s as much use as a fucking rabbit’s paw!

Finally, it seems that Sunak aide Craig Williams was discovered to have bet £100 on the PM calling a July election, just days before he did. He stood to win £500 on the wager.

Hahaha, have you clocked a picture of this piece of fuck Williams? AI, show me a ruddy-faced, dead-eyed, porky prime slice of Young Conservative! Everything’s a fucking hustle with you fucking spivs and shysters, isn’t it? £500 is piss all to you, but you’ve always got to get a bit more cash. If you’d got any fucking sense you would have bet ten grand on yourself for leader of the Conservatives by 2029, because you’re the sort of smug, self-serving, ham-faced shitbag who’ll fucking win!

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

Artisan bollocks and wall-to-wall f**king fudge: The gammon food critic visits a food festival

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who has it on good authority Keir Starmer’s secretly a poof.

FOOD is fuel, and anyone who talks pretentious bollocks about it is a con artist. ‘The sea bass goujons are sublime.’ Piss off. They’re just up-themselves fish fingers.

Take ‘food festivals’. Artisan this, pop-up f**king that. Horse shit. Churchill would never have allowed them back in Britain’s glory days. Mind you, I suppose rationing wouldn’t have helped. And U-boats.

However there’s one on in town and being an open-minded chap I’m going along to see what all the fuss is about. Plus I’ve heard there’s loads of freebies. That’s why food critics do it, you know. Jay Rayner hasn’t been to Tesco for ten years.

When I get there they’re selling beer, thank God, but in plastic pots you can carry around. It’s the worst kind of nanny state interference in our lives.

But they’re not wrong about the handouts. Crowds like f**king scavengers queuing up for a few gratis mouthfuls of grub. I bet half of them are on benefits that could have been spent topping up my pension. But if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, so I prepare to gorge myself on titbits without touching my wallet.

Which, as it turns out, are mostly fudge. Mary mother of Jesus, how many flavours? Sea-salted caramel, banoffee, biscoff, rum and raisin, ad infinitum. ‘Do you make and pack these yourselves then?’ I ask the guy on one of the stalls. ‘Oh yes, all prepared and packaged on our premises.’ ‘So you’re a fudge packer then?’ No response. Bloody hell, even fudge has gone woke.

Then flapjacks. Crapjacks, more like. Still, it’s free, so I try one of everything before muttering the ubiquitous British fib that ‘I’ll come back later when I’ve decided which to buy’. We both know I’m lying.

I move on to the cheeses, and there’s more than you can shake a shitty stick at. I’ve never understood that. What’s the point when we’ve already invented the king of cheese, Cheddar? 

And – surprise, surprise – there’s loads of foreign shit. Olives – not food. Thai curry that’ll have you crapping molten lava. Italian hams that won’t be a patch on Tesco’s honey roast. The samosas are okay though. I grab a taster from eight different stalls so that’s my stomach lined for the pub.

Job done, I’m left to reflect on why anyone would put up with these crowds to pay over the odds for stuff you can get in supermarkets. I suppose this is what our country’s come to nowadays. 

You’d never have seen our lads go over the top at the Somme clutching a vegan sausage roll in one hand and a caramel latte in the other, would you? I mean, obviously you wouldn’t really take food instead of a rifle, but you get my point.