The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that's more than enough Liz f**king Truss, thanks

WAKING up on a bed of empty rum bottles, my anus emitting wind at a prodigious rate and my head thudding as if a small, angry, right-wing man were trapped inside it, I sip a gallon of water to restore my faculties and reflect upon a recent financial initiative. 

I have faced criticism for the amount of ‘industrial’ language with which my sermons are peppered, with the Church feeling compelled to forbid those under 21 years of age from attending my services. 

I therefore decided to attach a swear box to my pulpit, in order to raise private funds for good causes. My sermon this week, ‘Why the FA are a bunch of fucking cunts for abolishing FA Cup replays, as Christ our Lord is my twatting witness’, for example, raised £1,000 for good causes as I warmed to my theme. Senior members of the clergy were squeamish at this scheme but as I told them in a summit meeting, ‘Where there’s fuck, there’s brass.’ 

And so I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Liz Truss has received a large amount of publicity for her new book, Ten Years To Save The West.

Joseph’s withered, unused dick, why the fuck are we hearing so much from Liz Truss? I know she’s got a book out but does there not come a point at which we stop gawping at fucking awful public people with rapt fascination? We may as well listen to Matt Le Tissier on how the weather is a fucking government conspiracy, or Ian Brown thinking the New World Order gives a shit about his Covid jab. If anyone needs to be fired out of a fucking cannon into the sea with heavy weights attached, it’s this Poundshop Ayn Rand, metaphorical evidence – literal evidence is also available – of how shit floats to the top in our fucked political system! 

Taylor Swift has ‘dropped’ a new album, rumoured to be inspired, lyrically, by her brief dalliance with Matty Healy, frontman of beat group The 1975.

Christ’s leathery scrotum, how could any sort of sentient human being bear to be in close proximity to a jammy little rodent like Matty fucking Healy? Just one of the worst twats ever to luck into a lucrative music career in music while millions of more talented musicians languish in obscurity because they couldn’t think of a wanky fucking name for their band. Christ’s sake, Taylor, you’re a fucking billionaire, you’ve got the pick of humanity and you pick out this creepy little cunt? I think we’d all agree a better title for the album would have been What In The Holy Name Of Fuck Was I Thinking?

Former England cricketer Ian Botham has expressed the following patriotic opinion on social media: ‘Personally, I think England is an island and we should remember that and be very proud.’

The fuck? England isn’t an island, on account of having Wales and Scotland attached to it, so that blows you out of the water like the shitewit you are for a fucking start! In any case, what’s to be proud of, happening to be born on a generally cold, rain-soaked rock in the fucking Atlantic? You might as well be proud of being a fucking puffin! And what kind of history-ignoring spanner declares pride in being fucking English? I’m so ashamed of being English when I’m out and about in Europe I pass myself off as Jan Tielemanns, a travelling Belgian encyclopaedia salesman, and he’s a boring fuck who collects international beermats!

Finally, after the knife attack in Sydney, Countdown personality Rachel Riley tweeted that it was Islamic terrorism, only for the killer to turn out to be a white Australian. She later apologised for any ‘misunderstanding’ her tweet may have caused.

Oh, there was no misunderstanding, you poisonous sum-solving fuck! Don’t gaslight us! We knew exactly what you were saying as you jumped the fucking gun: ‘Muslims do all the terror, so the sooner they’re bombed the better, and we don’t have to wait for the facts to come in before we state that outright.’ The only fucking Countdown there should be in your career is the days till you’re fucking sacked!

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All camel's eyes and sheep's bollocks: The gammon food critic goes Moroccan

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who thinks we should stop wasting money on foreign aid and give it to British pensioners struggling to afford a Saga cruise.

I’VE never had much time for the Arabs. Wasting their time racing camels, living in tents in terrorist training camps in the desert and dicking around with magic lamps.

And before the wokeys start calling me ‘racist’, I know what I’m talking about. I’ve seen Lawrence of Arabia and I had a package holiday in Tunisia once. But we’re talking about food here, so you don’t want to hear about my explosive liquid shits.

Anyway, there’s a new Moroccan restaurant opened in town, and to prove how openminded I am, I’m trying it out. Plus I blagged a freebie by telling them I’m a leading food critic. I am. I don’t bother trying the veggie crap like Grace Dent does.

They’re friendly enough but I’m keeping a firm hand on my wallet. Their favourite book isn’t called Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves for nothing. The decor’s a bit gaudy, with carpets on the wall. I wittily ask if they put them there, or if they flew up of their own accord. Nothing. Aren’t they meant to like a laugh, like Omar Sharif?

I’m a bit nervous as they present me with the menu. I’m expecting camel’s eyes, fried snakes and 50 ways to cook sheep’s bollocks. 

Luckily it’s flatbreads with dips for starters. Zaalouk, which is smoked aubergines stinking of garlic. Blended tomatoes and onions that’s not a patch on our ketchup. Why is everything the consistency of runny porridge? Probably because their teeth aren’t up to much else. Can’t be easy finding a dentist in the middle of the desert. Mind you, us Brits can talk. 

Mains are mostly a selection of tagines, or in English, stews. I order lamb. It’s okay until I hit something sickly sweet and realise it’s got bloody apricots in it. Astonishing to think there are still countries so backward they don’t realise meat and fruit goes together like Prince Andrew and a Girl Guides convention. 

It comes with Morocco’s ‘national dish’, couscous, which is semolina. It’s like eating f**king sand. Fair enough. Reminds them of the desert I suppose.

Pudding beckons and they proudly present me with ‘M’hanncha’, a pastry filled with almond paste. I ask what it means in English and it’s only bloody ‘snake cake’! They claim it’s because of the long, coiled shape, but I’m not taking any chances.

When the meal’s done they start asking awkward questions. ‘Which newspaper do you write for?’ and ‘When will we see the review?’. I tell them I’ll have to check with my editor and make a mental note to take a convoluted route home. Don’t want to risk them following me and finding out where I live. They’re stealthy buggers, like in Assassin’s Creed.

But, ever the professional, I lie that it was all delicious and make my escape. In one last attempt at humour, as I approach the door I wave my hands mystically in the air and cry, ‘Open Sesame!’ Then I fair shit myself as it opens by itself. I’d forgotten about the automatic doors.