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The Archbishop of Canterbury on… The Guardian: wake up and smell the middle-class bollocks

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating that were I to vomit the contents of my stomach would burn through to the Earth’s core, I reflect on my encounter with the Man Who Would Be Prime Minister. 

I had requested a meeting at my chambers with Mr Nigel Farage, intimating that I was considering endorsing Reform UK at the next election and would like to discuss this matter further. 

Mr Farage readily agreed, and that afternoon arrived at my office. Dismissing my clerk, I bade him sit down and, glancing about furtively, leant in close and said, sotto voce: ‘I believe that like your imprisoned colleague, you have the interests of Mother Russia at heart. I too have been a friend of the Kremlin for many years. We are very pleased with your work so far. Your Brexit. Your good relations with our friend Mr Trump. We would like to invite you to become an asset. It will be worth many roubles. Many roubles.’

Mr Farage passed a finger round the inside of his collar. ‘Well, I, er – roubles? No, look here, as an English patriot this would be out of the question. Roubles, you say?’

‘Many roubles. Your first payment wlll be tonight. Midnight. Meet me alone at these coordinates in Epping Forest. You must, and I cannot stress this enough, wait as long as is necessary.’

‘This is out of the question and in any case, it’s due to pour with rain tonight, so even with an umbrella… but… roubles?’

‘No umbrella. Risk of poison.’

I don’t know if he did turn up that night, but judging by his Question Time appearance the next night he seemed to have a stinking cold and looked thoroughly sorry for himself. 

Ah well. I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that this week the BBC ran with an online headline reading ‘Terror group Palestine Action like the Suffragettes, court hears’.

You stupid, timorous, quasi-Tory cunts, that’s the whole fucking point of this fucking court case, to determine whether or not they ARE a terror group, given that they don’t fucking engage in violent action! Talk about skewed phrasing! It’s like saying ‘Criminal denies charge of doing crime, court hears’. Wait for the fucking judgment! It’s stuff like this, drip, drip, drip, every fucking day which keeps the country docile and permanently tilted to the fucking right! Thanks for that, you fascist-enabling fuckfaces! And your fucking Christmas schedule is shit!

Vice president JD Vance gave an address to mark Thanksgiving Day to a gathering of troops at Fort Worth. ‘Think about turkey. Who really likes, be honest with yourselves, who really likes turkey? You’re all full of shit,’ he said, before elaborating at length on his anti-turkey theme.

Fuck me with a broken bargepole, what the actual fuck? Is this meant to be some sort of engaging banter? This is what you get with this fucking Trump administration, isn’t it? Crazed, authoritarian, far-right incompetence and corruption, punctuated with bizarre fucking musings about ‘windmills’ and fucking turkeys! Are you the youngest person ever to go senile, Vance? And coming from you it’s like a pot brimming with stinking faeces calling a kettle filled with fresh dog turds ‘full of shit’!

In the latest edition of the Guardian’s ‘You be the judge’ feature, the headline reads, ‘Should my partner stop compressing the coffee in the moka pot?’ The standfirst adds: ‘Hamad thinks his method enhances the flavour. Lucia says he’s breaking all the sacred rules. Who needs to wake up and smell the coffee?’

More like ‘Who needs to wake up and smell the pot-pourri of rank whimsy served up every day by the fucking Guardian?’ Seriously, in this world, the one we’re sinking in like fucking boiling quicksand, who is middle-class and featherheaded enough to give a gnat’s shit about stuff like this? It’s brown water to take the edge off a fucking hangover, not some holy fucking ritual! Common-or-garden coffee ponces are bad enough, but this is next-level coffee cuntery!

Finally, Kemi Badenoch has poured scorn on the Labour budget, describing those elements of it designed to lift children out of poverty as ‘handouts’ and comparing the poor to residents of Benefits Street.

Even by your piss-low standards, this is fucking desperate fare! The only people getting ‘handouts’ are the parasitical super-rich who see their vast, useless, non-circulating piles of cash ever increased thanks to the government being too fucking shit scared to tax them! Meanwhile, whatever ‘handouts’ the poor get they’ll have to hand back, and then some, to pay rising fucking food bills! Which you’d get if you weren’t A) a sadist, B) a cretin, or C) both. The sooner your party dwindles to fucking zero in the polls the better! So keep up the good work, Kemi!

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A white home counties roadman's crew camps out in a deadman graveyard wiv a bag of special brownies

FIFTEEN-year-old Active J, known in his detached home as Joshua Hudson, is spending the night with his ‘crew’ in a graveyard with treats kindly provided by Drilla’s older brother.

WAGWAN? Active J ‘as been hexperiencin’ da great houtdoors, fam. Crewdem an’ man decided to ‘ave a hadventure by campin’ hovernight in da local graveyard wiv da deadbots, innit?

Active J wanted to camp on da school hastroturf pitch, coz it is less rank, but crewdem thought man woz bare scared of deadbots climbin’ out of dem’s boxes an’ eating man’s flesh in da night. Are you jokes? Man is scared of nuffink, fam. You is.

Parentdem wanted Active J to stay in da nearest Malmaison hinstead. But man sed Active J is a brave bossman an’ is protectin’ him’s crew so will need a tent, innit. So man took parentdem to Go Houtdoors an’ bought a six-muggle Vango Alderley Air 650XL Tent wiv all da peng cookin’ an’ sleepin’ gear, an’ separate hareas for man’s drip an’ hafter shaves. Man ‘as standards, fam.

Da graveyard woz hyper-rank, fam. It woz bare full of hactual grass an’ mud ‘n ting. There wozn’t much room for crewdem to pitch it coz heverywhere there woz stones wiv deadbot muggle names on dem an’ how old dem’s woz when dem died. 

Drilla ‘as been campin’ wiv him’s big bruv bare loads, so him made a fire houtside. Den him gets out a bag of brownies him’s bruv made. Dem woz uber-peng, man ‘ad two. Den we sat haround drinkin’ Monster, chuggin’ vapes, an’ tellin’ rank ghost stories dat made gyaldem scared. Not Active J. Man woz just cold.

Den Drilla started scrannin’ a Curly-Wurly, an’ Lady G hasked if she could ‘ave some, an’ dickhead sed, ‘Yeah, you can ‘ave da holes, innit’. Fam, dat woz da funniest ting man ‘ad hever heard. Crewdem started laughin’ an’ laughin’, tears woz squirtin’ from man’s eyes, innit. An’ da more a bruv sed it, da funnier it woz. An’ den we woz laughin’ coz of da names Curly an’ Wurly, innit. Maybe you ‘ad to be dere.

It woz dark when we stopped laughin’, an’ Lady G looked at da stars in da sky an’ hasked if man thought there woz haliens watchin’ us. Active J sed dunno, but cud Lady G sit up coz her woz’ creasin’ man’s Cole Buxton puffa?

Active J needed a wazz behind a tree, in him’s fourth pengest 95s, in case of splashback, innit. But in mid-flow man saw shadows between da stones! Walkin’ like zombies, wivout swag. Man cud not push him’s wazz out quick henough, fam!

Active J ran back to crewdem an’ told dem dat da deadbots woz halive, or dat crewdem woz gonna be habducted by space muggles. Dem knew Active J woz bare serious, coz man ‘ad not changed back into him’s pengest 95s.

Den heveryone woz scared an’ screamin’ an’ ting. Three figures wiv lights where dem’s hands should be woz comin’ towards crewdem!

Drilla stood up. Active J saw dat gyaldem thought dickhead woz bein’ brave, so Active J busted ahead of him an sed: ‘Man is Active J. Bossman roadman. Is you haliens or deadbots, blud, innit?’ 

Da figures an’ Drilla started pissin’ demselves laughin’. It woz Drilla’s big bruv an’ crew, dem ‘ad brought bare bags of drive-thru Maccy Ds for munchies, or sumfink. It woz a bit ‘umiliiating but man was bare relieved not to be eaten by zombiedem or get da hanal probe. Gassed!

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