The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the cocking council elections

WAKING fully robed in my bathtub, my cassock covered in faeces, urine and blood, I realise that yesterday’s sherry reception for the Little Sisters of the Poor got a little out of hand. 

Motioning to one of my clerics to assist me from the tub, I repair to breakfast and examine the results of the local council elections. It seems Labour fared less well in some areas than in 2018. One unnamed official blamed ‘long Corbyn’ for this.

Twat of the fucking donkey in the manger, will you listen to yourself? You didn’t do as well as fucking Jeremy Corbyn in the council elections because of Jeremy Corbyn? You do realise how fucking deranged this is, or have you spent the last two years too busy leapfrogging about Labour HQ with your heads up your arses to notice? And I expect the fucking lesson you’ll take from this is to wedge your heads even further up your arses and next time you fuck up in the elections, blame it on Even Longer Corbyn! Useless wankers! 

Looking for reading matter while taking my ease in the Palace lavatories, I found a discarded Daily Telegraph. Although partly illegible due to brown stains, I read a column by one Allison Pearson in which she criticises Cambridge University and invites us to pity hypothetical grammar school pupils Rosie and Matt, who despite sparkling credentials are rejected from Cambridge for being ‘too overprivileged because they weren’t born to a pitbull-owning single mother on benefits’.

Yep, you’ve fucking nailed it there. Oxbridge fucking colleges, Balliol, Christchurch, Jesus, overrun by feral street kids, killer dogs shitting all over the quads, awarded scholarships by namby-pamby liberals even though they spelt Oxford ‘Ocksforde’ on their exam papers and signed up with ‘Giv uz a playse posh cunts’, while poor Rosie and Matt are forced to do the fucking unthinkable and slum it at Durham! This is definitely fucking happening, isn’t it? I mean, outside of the cesspit of self-pity that is your addled fucking mind and the fuming home counties thundertwats who lap up this sort of crapulous shite because they’re fucking addicted to high blood pressure! 

It seems that James Anderton, former Chief Constable of Greater Manchester Police has died, aged 89. A devout Christian, he held that people with Aids were ‘swirling in a human cesspit of their own making’. He also wished to reintroduce capital punishment and outlaw homosexuality.

Fuck me with the pointed end of my long stick, you were a right barrel of ignorant, backward fucking scum, weren’t you? A prime example of what I’m going on about in my most recent book You Can Take This Fucking Christianity Thing A Bit Far, You Know (Chatto & Windus, £16.99). Also an example of the old adage I learned at my grandmother’s knee – The Bigger The Prick, The Longer They Live. Which is why fucking Henry Kissinger will live to be 197 and Boris Johnson to 308, alongside his fucking dad!

Finally, Secretary of State George Eustice has offered tips to those struggling with the cost of living including buying value brands from their local supermarket.

Gee, George, I’m sure the fucking poor thought to themselves, ‘You know, we never thought of that’, when you laid these pearls of wisdom on them! They should buy Waitrose’s own brand of fucking caviar instead of the fancy stuff? Gosh, you certainly have the remotest fucking clue what it’s like to be fucking cash-strapped, don’t you? Any more fucking tips? Take taxis rather than hiring a limousine and driver? Holiday in four star Caribbean resorts this winter? Rather than throw out old fucking shoes eat them? Stupid UKIP cunt!

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He knows full well who Lorraine is. I've caught him wanking to her

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s first lady

HE’S not at his best in the morning. Takes him a while to warm up. Which is one explanation why his interview went so very fucking badly. 

The other reasons? Well, he’d finished the Chablis at midnight. He was late, which pisses off live TV people, what with them doing live TV. He’s not spoken to them for five years. 

And, most importantly, it took place just when he’s getting his morning horn, it was that leggy cow doing the interview, and he’s strictly forbidden from making a pass at her. I’d drummed that in the night before. 

Why couldn’t it be Piers? He’s so wrapped up in himself that he spends the first five minutes basking in the reflected glory of his interviewee’s presence. But he couldn’t keep the lid on his dick about Markle. 

So instead it’s Susanna Reid in a skirt and Big Dog repressing every one of his natural instincts while she talks over him boasting about Ukraine. And instead of asking about Partygate, which he’s got an answer all ready for, blindsides him with the cost of living. 

I was watching it all on the monitors ready to coach – even though I’m on maternity, a genius PR never rests – and tried to communicate with hand gestures. Useless. He looked like he’d been woken up on a train. 

What does he know about the cost of living? He never even orders the takeaways, let alone stumps up for them. The only advice he could give is ‘don’t pay and fuck off when the bills come in’.  

Then that final Lorraine comment. Instinct took over: one woman asks about another and you deny you’ve ever heard of her. I remember him doing it to Marina about me. 

Never heard of Lorraine? That’d be news to his cock. More than once post-briefing I’ve found him having a little rummage to her. Bit mumsy, but all the Tory boys have a thing for that. Comes of going to boarding school aged eight. 

He can wank to her all he likes. He’ll never go on her show. The daytime club don’t fucking vote.