The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that tuneless bastard Ian Brown

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!

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Smoking cigarettes and other stuff I got peer-pressured into, by Rihanna

MEGASTAR Rihanna is performing at the Superbowl simply because everyone else has and she didn’t want to be left out. What else was she peer-pressured into? 


I only tried my first ciggie because of peer pressure. Previous to that I’d stuck to healthy low-tar high-THC weed, but Lady Gaga and Miley Cyrus were on the fags in the toilets at Coachella and I didn’t want to look a dick so I joined in. I quit when I got pregnant but still vape like a steam train on the back porch. You make sacrifices when you have kids. The Superbowl’s going to cost me $60 for a babysitter.

Getting my first tattoo

With 23 of them now, including the goddess Isis on my rib cage, you’d think I was well into them, but I only got my second tattoo to cover up my first. A massive Scooby-Doo I got in Magaluf pissed on fishbowls. Got infected from the hotel pool. My dad went spare. And don’t get me started on my nipple piercing. I cried all the way to Claire’s Accessories getting that done. But me and Katy Perry had made a pact so I couldn’t back out. It bloody killed.


I only did this once and felt terrible about it. Drake dared me to steal a packet of Toffos so I did, but I couldn’t go in that corner shop again. I only recently admitted it to A$AP Rocky, my boyfriend, and he pointed out he’d been arrested for drug dealing, breach of contract, a handful of assaults and possession of a deadly weapon. Which made me feel better about my rap sheet.

Leasing a mid-sized SUV

Although I could have a fleet of Maybachs driven by personal drivers, I’ve somehow ended up with a ceramic grey 2019 Nissan Qashaqi on a three-year personal car hire lease. I popped into the dealership for a free Chupa Chup and Carl persuaded me I could drive one off the forecourt today for £2k down and then £250 a month. The mileage is good but I saw Kendrick Lamar at the lights in his Merc G-Wagon and was ashamed to be rolling in this sensible, suburban motherfucker.

Being in music at all

It’s not really my thing. I was planning go into commercial fishing, but was trilling a shanty while trimming sail and my first mate suggested I might be better off as a nine Grammy award-winning singer and underwear mogul. The whole crew agreed, from bosun to deckhand, I wasn’t strong enough to say no and so just went along with it. Now I’m kind of stuck. Same thing happened to Neil Young apparently.