The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the Duke of bastard York

TAKING a light breakfast of grapefruit and dry toast in my refectory following morning worship, I was intrigued to read Andrew Marr describing the idea that Boris Johnson should resign over the Partygate scandal as ‘a little quaint’.

Roger me ragged with the ancient primiatal cross, ‘a little quaint’? I always had you down as a servile little prick nestled cosily in the fucking perma-slime between the establishment’s arse cheeks but I never thought you capable of dead goats’ bollocks like this! ‘A little quaint’? While people were dying and isolated due to his own fucking COVD rules, the fat twat was quaffing champagne, stuffing his gullet with canapes and fucking smirking like Muttley at what fucking mugs we all were! He shouldn’t just resign, he should be launched out of parliament with a giant catapult sewn together from used hospice nappies into the Thames! ‘A little quaint’! A little cunt, that’s what you are!

It has been brought to my attention by a number of distressed parishioners that Ed Sheeran currently has four hits in the UK singles charts – Peru featuring one Fireboy DML, Bad Habits, The Joker And The Queen and Shivers.

French kiss my fucking ring, in a very real sense it’s days like this when I contemplate the British public and think to myself, ‘What the fuck is up with you?’ Ed Sheeran’s what happens when a divot fucks a cow pat! He’s got all the fucking appeal of a turnip that’s been out in the sun since the 13th century! He’s a fucking clay pigeon! Yet he’s only got to break wind into a studio microphone and you morons buy it up like idiot Catholics buying fragments of the true fucking cross! There are 17th-century hymns better than this shit!

Sir Keir Starmer has pledged that Labour will raise the national minimum wage to £10 an hour in two year’s time. As of this month under the Conservatives, it is £9.50 an hour.

And there you fucking have it. The chocolate-bottomed-teapot uselessness of the Labour Party under this piggy-eyed, rictus wanker Starmer and the difference of fuck all he’s going to make to working people. £10 represents a fucking cut, given that inflation’s currently tearing a new arsehole in the roof! It’ll probably be about a fucking fiver in real terms in fucking 2024! Still, mustn’t frighten the old flag-fucking racists in Stoke-on-Trent you’re currently pandering to by saying or doing anything remotely fucking socialist, eh? Twat.

Finally, a service of thanksgiving for the life of the Duke of Edinburgh took place at Westminster Abbey this week, which I attended in my ecclesiastical capacity. The Queen was naturally present, escorted down the aisle by her son Prince Andrew.

I tell you, when that senile, glassy-eyed, ludicrously over-praised buzzard came shambling in with that lecherous scumbag on her arm, I thought, ‘You are shitting me. Seriously, you are fucking shitting me.’ Actually, I didn’t just think it, I shouted it out loud! What a fucking troll! Laurence Fox and Julia Hartley-Brewer have got nothing on this old bird. Way to say ‘fuck you’ to any poor sex trafficking victim who had the misfortune to be introduced to her favourite fucking son! Even Prince Philip would have drawn the fucking line at this!

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday

Starmer says the public should know if I got fined. I say the Brylcreemed bitch should go fuck himself

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady

I AM off-limits. Not my rules – Westminster convention. Wives and girlfriends are kept out of politics. But nobody told that eagle-from-the-Muppet-Show bitch.

The public have a right to know if I’ve been fined? Why? I’m not a minister in this government, even if I could do a far better job than most of them and specifically Nadine Dorries, the lovelorn cow.

But I am a private citizen, and a young mother, and a victim of crime. If a single good can be found in this whole grubby affair, it’s protecting me.

So what does Starmer do? Goes at me like a nasty little terrier at a postman, despite looking more like the fucking postman. A self-important twat one who’s also the union rep.

Why am I any of his business? Except for the obvious. Seen Mrs Starmer? No, and that tells its own story, doesn’t it? When Corbyn’s got a hotter wife than you have, that’s going to cause some deep underlying anger.

And when the prime minister’s got a hotter wife than you? One who’s half your age, and easily the most attractive figure in British politics since Thatcher? A wife you can’t get out of your head even at the despatch box?

I told Big Dog. ‘He fancies me,’ I said. ‘All the Tories fancy you,’ he said, taking a slug of cognac straight from the decanter, which I wish he wouldn’t do. ‘Raab’s asked for your phone number.’ ‘No, Starmer,’ I said and his eyes went all tiny.

‘He bloody does, does he?’ he said, all angry. ‘This is like Paris and Menelaus fighting over Helen of Troy. Should I leak it to the Telegraph?’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But yes if the fine comes out. If that happens he’s obsessed, sends me explicit WhatsApps and only wants to know about Downing Street’s decorations so he can imagine me naked on the chaise longue.’

‘Grrr,’ he said. So we’re covered either way. And hopefully the fine won’t come out regardless. Because I’m not fucking paying it.