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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that fat fucking criminal Trump

WAKING with a hint of a morning head, by an empty petrol can I resorted to imbibing when short of conventional spirituous liquor, I hear a nervous tap on my door. 

A clerk shuffles in with an armful of tabloid newspapers for my inspection, with headlines including BAN THIS SICK FILTH, FOUR-LETTER FURY OF MAN OF GOD and MUST WE FLING GOAT PORN AT OUR KIDS? Ah. Moral panic is in the air.

They refer, of course, to my recent stint as guest editor of Songs of Praise where I did indeed show animals copulating to illustrate Isiah 56:9, had an altercation with the Bishop of Llandfaff regarding aspects of the Pauline Epistles which became physical, and was headbutted by a nun after I showed her my genitalia by way of analogy.

As I am contracted to produce a further six shows I suppose I must expect further brickbats. Perusing the broadsheets, I read that Donald Trump, facing charges in Georgia for attempting to overturn the 2020 general election, has declared his height and weight to be 6ft 3ins and 215 pounds respectively.

Joseph’s limp celestially-cuckolded Johnson, are you shitting me? 215 pounds? And the fucking rest, you fat lump of lying fuck! No way! If you were 6ft 3in and 215 pounds, you’d have the fucking physique of mid-period Muhammad Ali! And we can see from the footage of your sagging carcass shambling from one end of a golf course to another – when you’re not shambling in and out of fucking court – that you’re 98 per cent suet! 215 pounds! Go on, take your fucking shirt off and show us your rippling torso then, you hopelessly truth-averse, pitifully vain dipping pot of rampant cunt!

The Edinburgh Festival has, as ever, attracted the cream of Britain’s comedians. This year Lorna Rose Treen won the annual award for funniest joke with: ‘I started dating a zookeeper but it turned out he was a cheetah.’

Eh? What the fuck’s that? I mean, give us a second for the wind to stop whistling and the tumbleweed to roll out of shot but you dared to put that piece of crap in the entry pot – and it fucking won? Even on its own shit terms it doesn’t even make any sense! If he turned out to be a cheetah it’d be pretty obvious he was a cheetah from the get-go, and he wouldn’t be employed by the zoo, he’d be in the fucking zoo! A box of Poundland Christmas crackers would refuse to carry a joke as incoherent as this!

Luis Rubiales has vowed to stay on as head of Spain’s football federation following calls for his resignation for kissing Spanish player Jennifer Hermoso on the lips during the Women’s World Cup trophy presentation. He accused his detractors of a ‘witch hunt’ and ‘false feminism’.

Yeah, because we could trust an oily shitebag like you to recognise true feminism when you fucking well saw it! You were lucky not to get a knee in the bollocks, you horrendous perve! This isn’t a witch hunt, pal, it’s a cunt hunt and you’ve been fucking cornered! Mind you, if you are on a cunt hunt it’s not hard these days as practically everyone in charge of running football, nationally and internationally, from fucking Infantino right down the line, is a total cunt!

Finally, it seems that Prince Andrew has launched a bid to win back his armed security detail, worth £3m a year, which he lost following the settlement of a civil sex assault case. He is supported in his bid by Priti Patel.

Holy cockrot, if anyone needs police protection and definitely isn’t getting it, it’s the young women of Britain from the groping likes of Prince Andrew! Fucking Royals, eh? He’s so lacking in self-awareness I’m surprised he knows he fucking exists! Read the fucking room, you sweatless sack of sleaze! If Priti Patel’s on your side then by definition you’re on the wrong side! You’ve as much chance of getting this security protection as Gary Glitter has of presenting Children In Need, you copper-bottomed, ocean-going wankstain!

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Britain has an asylum backlog that can be seen from space. That will terrify refugees

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who wishes Boris had acted with Putin’s clear-eyed resolve

ASYLUM backlogs at a record high? Isn’t that bad news for Stopping the Boats, the only Rishi Sunak pledge anyone cares about? Or is he far cleverer than anyone thought? 

Because Britain’s asylum backlog, the greatest of any civilised nation, a towering backlog that can be seen around the curvature of the earth, is all to our advantage. 

We need to terrify refugees. And given these are people to whom the gun and the bomb are a way of life and a method of classroom discipline, that’s no easy task. 

But that bureaucratic backlog Rishi’s oh-so-subtlely allowed to build? That mountain of paperwork that Home Office officials, whipped into snarling, sadistic shape by Braverman, aren’t even pretending to reduce? 

That scares them, alright. Because in their benighted countries, so backward they rejected the benevolence of the British Empire, no piece of paperwork is complete without a thousand dollars slipped between the leaves. 

Refugees aren’t afraid of Bibby Stockholm. That’s paradise to them. They don’t fear being deported to Rwanda because there’s no functional difference between it and Syria or whatever. What threat is there in going from foreign to foreign? 

Paperwork? That scares them more than a million Talibans, who they basically agree with anyway. The idea of waiting in line? Of correctly filling in a form? Of, God help me, being polite to authority? That sends them running back to the land of rudeness: Europe. 

Let that backlog mount, Rishi. Let word of it spread through the warzones of the world. Let child soldiers pick up their guns and make something of their own bloody country rather than join the holding pattern in the Channel, waiting for their ticket to be called. 

Fight the invaders with what Britain does best: paperwork, red tape, and 120-minute waits for calls to be answered while listening to crackly versions of Greensleeves. They’d rather die. 

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