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The Archbishop of Canterbury on… the shameful bloodsport of persecuting Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor

WAKING with a hangover so excruciating that in desperation I bite my dog, as a dog’s hair apparently alleviates the effect, I masticate thoughtfully on fur and reflect on a momentous few days.

Sensing that president Trump’s State of the Union address may be open to criticism, I arranged for a simultaneous broadcast from Westminster Abbey. My own State of the Cunt address would be a blow-by-blow critique of the President’s speech from the pulpit.

Broadcast live worldwide and drawing on the rich heritage of Anglo-Saxon language to pepper my remarks, it reached a worldwide audience of 400 million, a YouTube record, watched by people of all nations, all creeds, all faiths and, myself included, none.

Permitting myself a pulse of self-congratulation, I read that Ian Maxwell, brother of Ghislaine, has described his sister as a ‘prop in the theatre of global outrage’ and notes ‘my family name has become a byword for scandal. My father Robert went from press baron to tabloid monster within weeks of his death in 1991.’

Yeah, well as I seem to well remember, there was a fucking reason for that, wasn’t there? What the fuck are you complaining about, you oblivious cunt? The demonisation of actual fucking demons? Your sister was a co-conspirator in the trafficking of underage women, your father plundered millions from his employees’ pension fund and if he hadn’t fucking topped himself, the dreadful, bullying hulk of twat’s elephantine arse would have been dragged off to jail for life, as well he fucking knew! The state of you scum!

Home secretary Shabana Mahmood has been granted permission to challenge the high court’s ruling that baning Palestine Action under anti-terrorism laws was unlawful.

You fucking won’t let this go, will you? Harassing pensioners protesting genocide while selling arms to Israel, all while re-legislating the English language until ‘terrorism’ means ‘ideas that reveal our fundamental evil’. Fuck you! 

The Spectator’s Brendan O’ Neill has decried ‘the digital hounding of Andrew Mountbatten-Windsor… the shame, right now, belongs less to Andrew than to those who have made a bloodsport from his troubles.’

Bloodsport! And we’re not talking about the actual bloodsport the fucking Royal Family loves, massacring grouse and shit. We’re talking about the disgraced cunt looking like the closing scenes of a Terminator movie and people taking the piss, knowing that this is probably the worst he’s likely to fucking get! Even among the dwindling band who find your performative, contrived contrarianism amusing, this stretches fucking patience! Read the room. Read the fucking country! 

Finally, Labour have been defeated in the Gorton and Denton byelection, with the Green party taking a famous victory.

The best political news in a fucking generation and a vindication of my decision to crack out the rum at 6.30am! Farage, you have been fucked! Labour, you have been double-fucked! The people haven’t just spoken, they have fucking sworn! Fuck the racists, fuck the pragmatists, fuck the cowards, fuck the opportunists, fuck, fuck, fuck for fucking joy!

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My quest to find out if I'm in the Epstein files, by a 78-year-old grandmother

By internet enthusiast Nancy Wilkes, who doesn’t understand why documents don’t fall out of the cloud when it rains

IN my day dirty old men wore raincoats and leered. Like Touchy Terry down the butcher’s. Marie married him, but then she had to with her moustache.

But in the 21st century? They’ve got yachts and planes and islands. Take this Geoff Epstein. Good-looking man by the standards of Geoffs, but by all accounts a wrong ’un. Got Andrew in terrible trouble, and I’m a Royalist but he was always thick as mince.

There’s all sorts in his Epstein’s files, though. Politicians, diplomats, presidents. Makes me wonder – am I in there?

You might ask why he’d be mentioning an ex-bookmaker’s assistant who’s six decades outside his age range and can only get the iPad to work by shouting at it. But I let Roy take a few saucy shots back in the day. Upskirt stuff. So hot I’m surprised we got them back from the chemist.

Lord knows where they ended up, and that’s the sort of blackmail material Epstein was after. There’s nothing more compromising than a sturdy thigh and a floral gusset.

And I could easily be an enemy of a man like that. I’m very forthright. Like Graham at bowls, he didn’t like strong ladies. I’ve reposted endless memes about his mate Peter Mandelson on the Facebook and I even read a few.

Is there any way I can write to the local council and see if I’m in? Like with my Freedom of Information requests about those remote-controlled pigeons I read about online, which they were very dismissive of. Said ‘they move around a lot’ and ‘all look the same’. That’s what they want you to think.

And when Andrew’s interview came out, I publicly – on the Facebook’s neighbourhood group – called him a ‘fat n0nce’. I put the 0 in to stop it being rude. He will have seen that and the word will have gone out that I must be silenced.

Bill Gates knew Geoff, but it’s supposedly a coincidence that my Windows 95 machine keeps breaking down. Never mind that my grandson Oli says it’s ‘riddled with viruses’. Who do you think sent those?

We need them to search the Epstein files for me. And tell them to search ‘Wilks’ as well as ‘Wilkes’, because a lot of the time people spell it wrong.

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