The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the Tories' fish-and-chip bullshit

WAKING in John O’ Groats, after having aided my repose with several bottles of malt whisky, I reflect on the events that led me to isolation in the far North. 

For last Tuesday, I suffered a tragedy when I spilled a litre of red wine in my chambers. I cried, for this was not mere milk, then took a Union Jack towel – a gift from the Archbishop of Congo, who is laughingly aware I regard this country as a toxic cesspit best wiped from the face of the earth – mopped up the wine then hung it out to dry.

That evening, I was informed that an image of the towel had ‘gone viral’. I stood accused, as head of the church, of wilfully giving Britain’s flag a ‘woke’ tinge by tampering with the sacred red, white and blue.

Stepping from my palace the next day, I was set upon and pursued by a gang of 40 furious red-faced, stocky middle-aged men. Fortunately, I outran them as one by one they succumbed to heart attacks; nevertheless I felt it expedient to take refuge for a few days in the farthest reaches of Scotland.

The furore having abated, I take the train to London and, esconced in first class, peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Jonathan Gullis has been appointed deputy chair of the Conservative Party.

Paint my arse blue and sit me on a shitty stick, Jonathan Gullis? An actual fucking chair would make a more competent fucking chair than this greased wedge of pure, reactionary-by-numbers, pants-shitting Tory cunt! He won’t be happy till school meals have been replaced by McDonalds, statues of slaveowners are compulsory in every market square and Lady Floella Benjamin is thrown in jail for cultural fucking Marxism! A man who openly fucking guffaws in parliament during debates on child poverty like it’s a Johnny Vegas routine! A man whose own face hates him so much it refuses to grow a proper fucking beard!

The Daily Telegraph believes Cadbury are cancelling Easter after a branch discount store in Spalding, Lincolnshire, displayed signs offering customers a two-for-£10 deal on ‘gesture eggs’.

Yeah, true enough. Remember how they cancelled Christmas back in 1992, a once popular festive season no one under 40 remembers any more? Now they’re gonna do the same to Easter. Today, Spalding, Lincolnshire, tomorrow the fucking world! Seriously, you deranged bunch of Telegraph fuckwads, do you never tire of ignoring the monstrous problems in this world, perpetrated by the pricks you support, in favour of pseudo-indignant stunts like this? Mind you, I’ll tell you fucking what! If Christ did return he’d be all for cancelling Easter! Last thing he wants to be reminded of! Been able to see through his fucking hands for nearly 2,000 years!

Conservative MP Steve Tuckwell has launched a petition in his constituency to establish a fish and chip shop in Uxbridge town centre.

You fucking what? A petition to open a fucking business? How does that work, and how the fuck does it square with Tory free market ideals? Sounds to me like you’re proposing a return to a Soviet-style command economy! Don’t get me wrong, I’d sign up for a fish-and-chip shop, though I’d much sooner sign up for a curry house and you won’t be launching a campaign for one of those! Face, it, pal, this pathetic data-gathering exercise to boost your fucking wafer-thin electoral hopes doubles up as a pitch for the chippy you’ll be working behind the counter of when you get hoofed at the general election!

Finally, The Sun have made great play of a photograph of Prince Harry alongside P Diddy, the hip-hop artist subject to a federal investigation of allegations involving sex trafficking, sexual assault, illegal narcotics and firearms.

P Diddy? Formerly known as Puff Daddy? This isn’t a case where we have to worry about separating the art from the artist, is it? We’re not exactly talking Wagner here? Appallingly shite music, appallingly shite human being! As for Harry, so fucking what? It’s the overpaid job of the likes of Harry to turn up at public functions with famous people and grin for photos! And guess who’s also there, cropped out of the photo you printed? Prince William! Because that’s his sorry fucking job too as well you know, you terminally irrelevant cunts!

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Children at state schools fling dung for a living. My nice children deserve better

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who would die for Kate, no questions asked

IF your child attends a comprehensive school, you have given up on them. You have decided hosing shit off roads for a job is all they can aspire to. And I respect that. 

When you condemn children to a classroom that closely resembles a prison riot, with faeces-smeared walls and teachers who got a single E at A-level in Social Justice Studies, you have accepted they cannot be educated. Good. There will always be jobs for them.

But my children, and the children of tens of thousands like me, deserve better. They would not flourish having their heads stamped on. Being stuffed into burning lockers while being beaten with cricket bats would make them cry.

For us, there are two choices: grammar school, of which a scant few survived the Soviet purges of Harold Macmillan’s Red Brigades, or private school. Simply because we have hopes for our children that rise above their severing chickens’ heads for a living.

We make sacrifices. We scrimp, we save, we register ourselves as corporations to cheat the taxman. All because we want our little ones on the right path in life. And now Keir Starmer, eyes glittering with class hatred, will take all that away.

By removing the VAT exemption private schools rightly enjoy he raises their prices. When the prices go up, the children come out. And so an entire generation is condemned to hell.

Through no fault of their own, some children are not academic. Private schools would selflessly send them to Oxbridge and into six-figure careers regardless. Grammar schools, with their Marxist belief that ability trumps background, will slam the door in their faces.

We face the terrifying spectre of nice children from detached houses being thrown into pits of snarling, cannibalistic subhumans, like in the third Batman movie.

It is not policy. It is mass murder. It will devastate this country like nothing since the Great War. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Starmer’s Britain.