The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that bullying bellend Raab hitting the bricks

WAKING on a children’s roundabout liberally bedecked in blood, I rotate calmly while recalling the events that led me to my present pass. 

Invited to read to children at a Bermondsey primary school, I was spotted while mid-way through Snickers, The Curious Goat by a group of fascist gentlemen whose lamentable ignorance of ecclesiastical clothing led them to believe I was some manner of drag act.

They attempted to assail me, whereupon I successfully repelled them with my crozier, forehead, knees and ringed fists. As the children cheered I accepted a small sherry to calm my nerves, following which it seems I felt it expedient to drain the cask.

Events thereafter are blurred, but I am confident the children found the display instructive of Christian morality. I hasten home, where I read that Dominic Raab has resigned following a damning report on his intimidating and aggressive manner in government meetings.

Roast my hamsters on a shitty stick, what the fuck are you gonna do now, Raab? Leave politics and get work as a professional bully? I’d fucking draw up a chair to watch that! You working for some dodgy underworld crook turning up on the doorstep of some geezer with a drug debt? ‘Look here, if you don’t hand over the money right now I’ll address you in a derisive and humiliating manner in front of your peers and colleagues! You ruddy well see if I don’t!’ You wouldn’t last five fucking minutes, you chinless cunt!

Fox News has paid $785.5 million to election technology company Dominion to settle legal action over accusations that they spread false claims about the 2020 American election outcome.

Piss blood into a duckpond, you absolute fucking spoilsports! You had that reptilian cunt Murdoch over a fucking barrel! You could have dragged him into court and given us the pleasure of watching him slither and squirm, shifting in his seat as his ancient arse got itchier and sweatier under fucking duress, giving him the most uncomfortable hours of his protracted hell-deferring life! We could have watched as he melted away before the world’s eyes into a puddle of green ooze with a pair of spectacles atop! And you took the fucking money like the twats you are!

Concert ticket scams have soared over the last year as criminals target fans of leading acts including Lewis Capaldi.

I’ve said it before and I’ve said it again – a Lewis Capaldi fan and his money are soon fucking parted! Who the fuck would demand anything less than a hefty fee to go see Lewis Capaldi in a giant bowl of mediocrity-addicted idiots? Why go see Lewis Capaldi when you could just stare at your fucking thumb for two hours straight? I’d rather chew dry shit from the ringpiece of a wombat than go see Lewis fucking Capaldi! Seriously, I’d rather go to fucking church than go see Lewis cunting Capaldi! These scamsters are doing God’s work!

Finally, the King has been in the news this week in his capacity as private landlord. One of his tenants spoke of her pride at living in his property and the money she has ploughed into renovating it. ‘I’m hoping they appreciate all the money I’ve spent,’ she said.

Do they fuck, you grovelling mug! To the Royals you’re one more peasant to be fleeced for every last bit of pittance, demanding you bow and scrape and exit the room backwards as they fucking do so! It’s airheaded sycophants like you that let them get away with it! Let Charles install his own fucking shower in his own fucking property! Come round with his spanner in his blue overalls and do the job himself like any other tight bastard landlord! Prick!

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

'Sir Softy? Oh Rishi. You are so shit at this,' my wife says

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most name-calling prime minister

‘HE calls you a paedo enabler and Sir Softy is what you hit back with? Do you not even pay attention when I am insulting you?’ my wife asks, not unreasonably. 

‘It works because,’ I explain, still pretty buzzed about the bullseye I scored, ‘it makes a mockery of his knighthood and undercuts all his tough talk. Because he’s not actually tough. He’s a softy.’

‘He’s taller than you. And wider,’ Akshata observes. ‘And looks as if he could throw a punch. My money’s on him.’

Nettled, I reply ‘Anyway, it’s got him on the run. Softy because he’s soft on crime, you see? That’s the line we’re going to win the election with. And there’s a picture of him with an ice-cream.’

I feel I’ve won Akshata over, by her silence, and jauntily crack a kombucha when I notice she is staring at the floor, breathing carefully and shaking her head. Historically that’s been an ominous combination.

‘I have put up with this prime minister bullshit,’ she says, in an even tone that chills me. ‘They come after my non-dom status and I smile. They come after my investment and I say very sorry, pretty please can I pay more tax.’

‘And this is it? This is the best you can manage? Compulsory maths and an infant school nickname for this lipless wolfhound-hair Sam-from-the-Muppet-Show’s-bastard-child puffin redface?

‘They take my childcare millions – only about six, but the little amounts add up – and you do nothing. They call you a paedo provider and you think it makes them look bad? You are shit. You are shit at this specifically. Give this up. Let’s leave for Mumbai tonight.’

‘I can’t,’ I say, ‘I’m prime minister,’ and she cannot even look at me as she stalks out of the room.