The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the bottomless fuckpiggery of Matt Hancock

WAKING with a start, I find myself seated in a large wood-panelled room, surrounded by row after row of grave-looking men and women. 

I am faced with a suited interlocutor, a lawyer by his phrasing, intoning gravely ‘Cockipiss… twatpig… fuckmonkey… bollockbrains… anusface… jizzsucker… cunt… cunt… cunt…’

The list goes on, rising to heights of obscenity I recoil from repeating in polite society. When it concludes, every face in the house white, he asks ‘Is that correct?’

‘Yes,’ I tell the ongoing inquiry into the government’s handling of the Covid pandemic, to which as leader of the Anglican church I was closely involved, ‘those were the words I used in my texts to Matt Hancock.’

‘That was on the Tuesday,’ he continues. ‘The following day we have ‘Penisflakes… scrotumjuice… smegmabreath…’ and so the litany continues.

The hearing adjourned, I pop into the Costa by St Paul’s and peruse a periodical, where I read that the aforesaid Hancock told officials that he – rather than the medical profession – ‘should ultimately decide who should live or die’ if the NHS was overwhelmed.

St Francis of Assisi sodomised by wolves, I puked my ring reading that! Imagine the cunt looking over a patient’s notes, marking them ‘fat, unemployed, waste of a fucking bed’ or ‘nice arse on this one, cure her, scrub her up and send her to my tent’. What kind of jumped up, grossly over-promoted, only-became-an-MP-because-he-flunked-out-of-estate-agent-school, spotty Tory prick tries to override the fucking medical profession to cosplay as fucking God? Twat Mancock, that’s fucking who!

The new Beatles single, Now and Then, was created with state-of-the-art AI technology to match Lennon’s vocals with drums and bass by the surviving Beatles. Strings were also added.

Christ on a fucking stick, you’d have thought a pair of 80-somethings would be aware of how precious time is and not waste ours on this turgid, lethargic, mawkish, dead-dog’s-last-breakfast of a track. Strings? Of course there’s fucking strings, the last refuge of a cunt! And is that meant to be Lennon? It sounds fuck all like him! If there’s one thing to come from this pile of catshit it’s knowing that AI isn’t gonna be rising up and destroying humanity any time soon if this is its best work!

Katharine Birbalsingh, known as ‘Britain’s strictest schoolteacher’, has complained to Marks & Spencers about their Christmas advert. She accuses the retailer of ‘ignoring the spirit of Christmas of self-sacrifice, gratitude’ to invoke the ‘values of Scrooge’.

God al-fucking-mighty, if it isn’t fucking wackos making out a Christmas advert is Zionist propaganda, it’s Britain’s strictest self-abuser Katherine Birbalsingh pulling green ink bilge like this out of her arse! It’s a fucking advert! It’s not gonna destroy Christmas, though no bad thing if it did if you ask me. It’s not gonna bring the fucking country to its knees, your fucking right-wing mates in government are doing a good job of that, thanks very much! They still allow you to teach kids? It’s fucking 2023, not 1923, you deranged, gibbering goon!

Finally, it has emerged that early in the pandemic, Boris Johnson circulated a video of a man blowing a hair dryer into his nostrils his nose to ‘kill Covid’ around senior health advisors.

And there it is. Put your files away, pack up, last one out turn off the lights and fuck off home because this enquiry is fucking done. Verdict: At a moment of dire national crisis, Britain had chosen to be led by an absolute fucking moron, a shag-happy, psychopathic bin sack of spunked-on suet, because Lord forbid we have nationalised sausages under Jeremy Corbyn! Also, we thought it’d be a laugh to elect a sub-Woosterian fuckwit who thought you could blast away a virus by sticking a hair dryer up his fucking nose! That’s the people we are, God fuck us!

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Kamala Harris! Elon Musk! The Italian fascist lady, all at my AI conference! 'You have found your level,' says my wife

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most AI-compatible prime minister

A GLITTERING array of world leaders have flown in for my AI conference. X-Man Elon Musk, the US vice-president you see so little of and a woman from the EU I hate. 

‘There could always be more world leaders, yes,’ I say excitedly, straightening my tie, ‘but I won’t apologise for my ambition in reaching out to Xi Jinping, and anyway look who we’ve got!’

Akshata looks round the curtain. She didn’t want to come, but Elon’s here and he’s a billionaire so outranks her so her dad ordered her to.

‘I see the UN guy here for Christmas shopping, the black woman who pushes Biden’s wheelchair, and the fascist from the Italian shopping channel,’ she says. ‘I told you cancel when Bill Gates and Bono wouldn’t return my calls. What even is Blotchy Park?’

‘Bletchley,’ I correct, patiently. ‘This is where Professor Stephen Hawking cracked the Enigma code for the first time. It’s a reminder that Britain always leads the way.’

‘In employing Indian programmers,’ my wife adds. ‘Okay, get out there, don’t tell them what you told me about wanting to become an AI, text me the minute Elon arrives even if it’s in the middle of your big speech. Father wants a low-orbit satellite.’

‘I’m going to tell them how wonderful AI is,’ I promise. ‘I’m going to extol its benefits, like being as dangerous as nuclear war, and tell them that I can be their Oppenheimer, baby.’

‘Don’t say baby,’ Akshata advises. ‘And ask Elon about tech roles in California starting 2025. They employ Nick Clegg, you have at least a chance.’