The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the Tories knowing f**k all about the British way of life

WAKING up with a headache that feels like my brain matter has been trampled by an angry donkey, I reflect on the events of the last two days. I had attended an informal international event, established in 1886 among the world’s Archbishops: a masturbation contest.

We wear full garb, reflecting our pride in our ecclesiastical status, as well as a joy in what, with respect to our more austere Catholic friends, we have come to regard as one of God’s greatest gifts.

We meet inside a chalk circle and pleasure ourselves communally, with a panel of judges assessing our efforts on the basis of height of plume, majesty of arc, viscosity and so forth. I won for the eighth year running, having perfected the art of mentally conjuring Gloria Hunniford in her prime.

With a stretch of my tired fingers, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Jools Holland of Squeeze and Hootenanny fame is to feature in a revamp of Radio 3 with a Saturday programme.

Fuck my dog with a frozen sausage, why does that weaselly, creepy, obsequious, Uriah Heep-like little cunt Jools Holland have to be involved in every single fucking corner of British musical culture? It started with The Tube, ruining 80s pop, then continued for the next 40 years with every New Years Eve rendered intolerable with his insistence on tinkling the bastard ivories over the top of every touring musician! We thought we were safe on Radio 3, a sequestered cloister where we could listen to a bit of fucking Beethoven and shit, but no, in he barrels with his boogie-woogie fucking Bach or whatever! Fuck right off back up the colon of Deptford, you greasy fucking arse!

50 per cent of Conservative Party members believe that Muslims represent a danger to the ‘British way of life’, it has emerged.

Oh, really? And what colourless, flavourless, spam-infested, pinched, small-moustached 1950s joylessness would this ‘British way of life’ represent? Some John Major-inspired shit about 80-year-old virgins cycling to church in the fucking drizzle? Long grey socks and violent, character building injuries in the fucking playground? Golliwogs dangling from nooses on display outside every village store? Just die, die, as soon as possible die, you fucking awful cunts, so the rest of us can finally get on with our lives without your geriatric stranglehold!

Much touted combo The Last Dinner Party have ascribed their success to the ‘escapism’ of their music, with lead singer Abigail Morris explaining that a lot of people don’t want to hear about the cost of living crisis. Morris enjoyed an expensive private education while the band got their first lucky break supporting The Rolling Stones.

Fucking hell, I’d not so much put this down to ‘escapism’ as having a shitload of invisible levers of privilege and connections the rest of us poor twats can only fucking dream about! But let’s face it, a privileged background is the only way you’re gonna make it big in the indie music business these days, right? You bet most people don’t want to hear about the fucking cost of living crisis, but unlike Abigail and her fascinatingly decadent mates who look like they fell out of a gymkhana and into a fancy dress shop, they’ve no option because it’s screaming in their ears every shitting day! Also, the Rolling Stones! Testicle-faced old cunts!

Finally, Rishi Sunak has warned about the dangers of ‘mob rule’ in the face of ongoing protests against the war in Gaza.

You know what? Given the choice between being ruled by the sort of people who take time out of their busy, decent lives to protest a fucking genocide, people from all races and creeds, incidentally, you snivelling, insinuating little runt, I’d take them over the bunch of incompetent, jumped up, corrupt, tiny-minded quasi-fascists who form your protective guard! You know, doctors, students, intellectuals, and teachers protesting against your grossly over-promoted clique of failed fucking management consultants and would-be GB News presenters! You’d have to go back to about the fucking 13th century to find a worse bunch of brigands running Britain than you twats! 

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How to scrape out a compliment about your partner's genitals, with the Mash sex columnist

JUST like when a friend asks your opinion on a poem they’ve written, it can be hard to find nice things to say about your partner’s junk. But anything that may boost your chances of oral sex is worth a go.

If you’re struggling to big up something that looks like it was the result of a botched genetic experiment by a mad professor, you may need some inspiration. Help yourself out with this cheat list:


Most enduring sexual relationships are founded upon blatant lies, as you’ll know having said things like ’I’m so hot for you… I can really feel that… Yes, I’ve come…’ on a regular basis. So don’t feel the pressure to be honest, especially not when it comes to complimenting genitalia previously only seen pickled in formaldehyde in a Cabinet of Curiosities. Just tell him he’s big and tell her she’s tight and be done with it.

Trick yourself

Since it’s undeniably hard to come up with flattering words for something that looks like it should be growing on the Elephant Man’s face, why not think up plaudits for other objects and apply them here? Imagine you’re complimenting a new car, for example: ‘Love the colour, is that sunset mauve on the helmet? Feels as soft and buttery as calfskin. How many speeds does it go?’ You may not imagine they’ll appreciate their penis being compared to a Nissan Almera, but in the throes of foreplay you can get away with a lot.

Get poetic

Be creative with your words: tell her her vag is as warm and wet as a summer rock pool. Compare his dick to a big, hard fire hydrant. You may not be Chaucer but, in the interests of steaming things up in the bedroom, you can pretend to be. Why not really lean into that smutty Medieval language and attempt to get them hot by saying things like ‘ram that stif bourdon up my bedewed queynte with haste’. Remember, stumbling on new kinks is always a bonus.

Get the tone right

It doesn’t really matter what you say, as long as you say it with enthusiasm. So slap on a happy face and keep your tone positive and full of wonder: ‘Look at these veins! What does this lumpy bit do?’ Even if you lack the imagine to do anything other than commentate on what is happening in front of your eyes, you’ll pull it off if you sound encouraging enough: ‘Wow, look at that, it’s going floppy!’

Talk the talk

Dirty talk is essentially just bullshitting, so try channelling people known for their expertise in this area, for example politicians or candidates from The Apprentice. Talk yourself up by saying things like ‘As a sexual athlete, I would rate myself as the best in Europe’. Overstate the case when complimenting your partner too, but if you find yourself describing their clitoris as ‘bigly’, you’ve gone too far.

Keep things simple

While imagination always helps in the bedroom, it’s important not to overthink things. There’s enough to juggle during foreplay anyway, what with zips and bra clasps to manage, and farts to hold in. If fancy compliments are one thing too many to manage, a simple ‘Nice dick, babe’ or ‘Woah, now that’s what I call a vulva!’ will do just fine.