I AWAKE on my canal break in the Norfolk Broads atop a sunken narrowboat, a litre bottle of overproof rum by my side and effluent pouring into my mouth from a rusty pipe.
Glad to be roused from a petrifying nightmare in which the country had been forcibly taken over by a zombie Thatcher risen from the grave, I commandeer a passing vessel and flick through their periodicals.
Therein, I read that Ian Brown, former Stone Roses vocalist, is on tour performing live vocals to backing tracks of his songs at a mere £40 per ticket.
Shit my cock, 40 fucking notes to watch you gimping around onstage massacring your own tunes with the deadly weapon of your shittier-than-shit vocals? Without even musicians to cover up the fucking embarrassment of your abject, chronic tunelessness? I mean, face it, Bez on maracas in the Happy Mondays made a more worthwhile contribution to the music than you did to the fucking Roses! Tell you what, pal, you object to wearing fucking masks but if I were I’d be wearing a fucking mask every time I stepped out the door, you hopeless simian cunt!
Football pundit Mark Lawrenson has told the Mail that the reason he was sacked from the BBC was because he was ’65, white and male’. ‘All this woke stuff drives me bonkers,’ he added.
Ah, yes, the white male football pundit, practically an extinct species these days. I can only think about a fucking hundred off the top of my head. Ah, to be white and male, you can be sent to prison for that these days? You fucking should be for being the most joyless, droning, hangdog, wet-weather, turgid, tediously self-satisfied, boring uncle of a twat ever to be handed a fucking microphone with jokes that fell like wet farts in a crowded lift! Think all that might have had something to do with it rather than you not being a lesbian!
I was corrected by one of my parishioners for referring to King Charles as Prince Charles during a sermon. I admonished her from the pulpit for I cannot abide rudeness, but this little incident certainly illustrates the challenge of accepting his new title.
Face it, the Arseache Formerly Known As Prince, you can lay this ‘King’ stuff on us but none of us are fucking buying it! You could wear your crown all day every day, opening a swimming baths or massacring grouse or tucking into a swan sandwich but you’ll always be Prince Charles to us, a ruddy-faced, jug-eared joke of a man who inherited his mother’s fucking job! King Charles, my sacred arse!
Finally, it seems that Labour have extended their lead over the Conservatives to 33 per cent, thanks to Prime Minister Liz Truss sticking by her plans to offer tax incentives to the rich rather than handouts to the poor.
Fuck me with the rod of Moses, the rate your popularity’s plummeting and the pound with it, the only bit of England retained by the fucking Tories is gonna be a small divot in Gloucestershire! You don’t belong in Number 10, you belong in some sort of institution! Don’t get me wrong, it’s hilarious watching you pilot the Conservative Party into the side of a mountain and no one daring to get out of their fucking seats and do something about it, but Joan of Arc’s tampon on a shitty stick, a wheelbarrow of nuclear fucking waste would make a better Prime Minister than you!
