The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that pisspot Priti Patel

WAKING up in a Hell’s Angel clubhouse, my head thumping like the timpani section in Wagner’s Die Walküre, I taste petrol on my lips. 

It seems following an ecumenical reception I entered a friendly challenge with a passing fellowship of bikers as to who could drain the tank of a Triumph Bonneville in a single draught, and emerged victorious.

Stepping over the comatose bodies of my leather-clad friends, I borrow a Harley Fat Boy and return to my chambers, there to learn that home secretary Priti Patel’s attempt to deport asylum seekers to Rwanda was unsuccessful but she has vowed to fight on.

Beelzebub’s big dog’s cockstick, are you the most twisted, smirking pellet of pure, uncut, evil who ever haunted the fucking House Of Commons? If I performed a fucking exorcism on you, you’d melt like dogshit in rain! I speak with all the fucking solemnity and seriousness of my high ecclesiastical office when I say that there are serial killers who would have made a better, more competent and compassionate fucking Home Secretary than you. I can’t think of any who wouldn’t! Brady, Sutcliffe, Shipman, West? Nope! You are, beyond doubt, the most morally rancid, festering, loathsome, thick, useless, poisonously excremental, scumsucking cunt in government! 

Elton John is currently playing his Farewell tour, which has seen him play dates in the UK and across the world.

Farewell tour, eh? Is this the same fucking farewell tour as you played in 1977, 1982, 1983, 1977, 1990, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2006, 2008, 2009, 2012, 2014, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020 and 2021? And that you’ll still be playing in 2023, 2024, 2025, 2026 right up until 2040? Is there anyone in this world less capable of actually fucking off for good than you? Why do you carry on? You can’t sing, you’ve lost the ability to use two thirds of the letters in the alphabet when you do, and you look an absolute twat. How much did you pay for that fucking wig, and why didn’t you just buy half a dozen mopheads from Poundstretcher? 

Question Time came from Newcastle this week, a town I have visited many times in my capacity as God’s messenger. It featured audience contributions from a diverse range of middle-aged white men with facial hues from rosé to brick red.

Tear me a new hole and fuck me, why is it still called Question Time when it should be Cunt Time? In my address at Newcastle Cathedral I told them straight: you’ve got your fair share of shirt-dodging pricks up here but nothing as noxious as spittle-spraying carpet-chewing Daily Express-eating hellspawn! Face it BBC, in your attempt to find a ‘balance’ between kissing Boris Johnson’s arse and sucking his cock, you deliberately seek these fuckers out!

Finally, it seems that billionaire Frederick Barclay, aged 87, of the Barclay brothers who took ownership of the Telegraph, faces the ‘terrifying’ prospect of prison for non-payment of a divorce settlement.

Good! Fucking great! The church is all about spreading the good news and this is the best news I’ve heard since BoJo caught COVID! Same as I did then, I’ve ordered church bells to be rung across fucking England! I hope they imprison you, Barclay, and I hope a 20 stone tattooed psychopath makes you his bride. I hope you get done five times a day, they way you and your prick of a brother fucked the country via the Daily fucking Telegraph!

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You know who'd make a bloody brilliant ethics adviser? Me

From the diaries of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady: 

INNATE, incorruptible moral authority. Already in the orbit of Downing Street. Independent from the office of prime minister. Opportunity, meet Carrie. 

Look at the evidence. Since we first met I’ve kept him straight and honest, so flawless moral guidance is already in place. Admittedly he doesn’t follow it consistently.

Ethical living? That’s my whole reason for being. That’s my sole focus, day after day, setting an ethical example to the young people of Britain. Showing them how to tread lightly on our fragile earth.

And independent? Anyone who’s heard me going at him after another one of his idiocies – there was a tape you may remember, I felt I came across exceptionally well – knows that I don’t blindly take his side. I am very much my own woman.

Slam dunk. I presented my case. ‘Fuck all that,’ Big Dog said. ‘Ethics are for Aristotle.’

‘Look at the Romans,’ he continued. ‘Dropped all that ethics shit. Conquered the known world. Only collapsed when they turned Christian. Ethics get in the way.’

‘What about my green living net zero initiative outreach?’ I said. ‘That’s at the heart of everything we do as a government and a couple?’

‘Not doing me any fucking good in the polls,’ he said. ‘Neither was Geidt. Who did he think he was, judging me?’

‘I didn’t like him,’ I said. ‘When he came round about the wallpaper? He winced when I told him it was £840 a roll. Like I was noveau riche.’

‘See?’ he said, taking a quick swig of Pimms straight from the jug. ‘Better off without one. It’s like when Marina installed nannycams. All they can do is get you in trouble.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but it pays £140k a year.’ ‘You’re perfect for it,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the paperwork through for Monday.’