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The Archbishop of Canterbury on… who's up for three hours of Sting singing about ships?

WAKING with a hangover so intense it raises the room temperature from 33 to 38 degrees, I sip down several gallons of water and reflect on another notable week in my pastoral career.

I was contacted by a publisher specialising in theology and religious affairs, who asked if I would be willing to contribute to an anthology of theirs titled Reflections On The Power Of Prayer. There would be no fee, they said, but my essay, if published, would gain me invaluable exposure in the Church of England.

Resisting the temptation to invite him to shove his exposure up his swindling fucking arse, I agreed, by return of email. I said, however, that my contribution would not be a lengthy one.

‘That is most welcome. Brevity is a virtue!’ he replied. I then sent him my submission, in full.

‘If there was anything to the fucking power of prayer the orange cunt would be fucking dead and buried right now! But he fucking isn’t, so save the fucking wear and tear on your knees and stop wasting your fucking time!’

Still awaiting a response, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Tony Blair has made one of his rare monthly interventions into British politics, urging Labour to abandon net zero, support Donald Trump and shift to the right.

Yeah? Well, suggestions noted, you mad-eyed, dictator-arselicking fucking war criminal and fucking mullet-headed nutjob! Abandon net zero? Open the fucking window, you cunt! Is 34 fucking degrees in May too chilly for you? Shift further to the right? If Labour shifted any further to the fucking right they’d fall into the fucking Channel! As for Donald Trump, I know you’re so far up his arse your head is peeping out of his mouth, but every sane person, and a lot of totally batshit ones too, realise the fucking game is up with that fuck!

Former health secretary Alan Milburn has also been in the news this week, echoing Blair’s criticisms of Labour and warning of a ‘lost generation’ of youth due to unemployment.

Fuck my dead dog with my dead cat, they’re wheeling out this piece of twat? A former health secretary who makes fucking Wes Streeting look like Nye Bevan, who made his name outsourcing fucking health services and now makes millions advising private companies profiting from his health ‘reforms’! Almost as big a New Labour cunt as Blair himself! Yep, all the people we least fucking need are all over the shop this week! Oh and fucking hell, they’ve dug up Harriet Harman too!

Sting has spoken up this week, asserting that the loss of manual jobs is driving the culture of toxic masculinity. He also has a musical about the decline of the shipbuilding industry, The Last Ship, returning to the West End.

Yes, of course, because we all remember how back in the 50s and 60s, the days of widespread industrial labour, how non-violent and feminist men were as a result of working in the shipyards, steelworks and down the mine all day! Sit down, you ridiculous fuck and muffle the fucking orifice you talk out of; the value of what you reckon is about the same as the value of the Deutschmark in fucking Weimar Germany! As for your fucking musical, I presume it’s the usual stuff about knackering manual labour giving you dignity and whatnot. If you’re that fucking keen on it, Gordon, there’s nothing stopping you getting a job in a fucking warehouse! 

Finally, BBC Question Time this week devoted itself to the topic of AI, inviting the following guests: Darren Jones, Labour MP; Julia Lopez, Conservative; Mo Gawdat, ‘AI pioneer’; Laura Gilbert of The Tony Blair Institute; and Victor Riparbelli, CEO of Synthesia.

O-kay, let’s go through this cavalcade of cunts one by one. Darren Jones is a fucking known AI booster and deep dweller in the rectum of Tony Blair. Julia Lopez, well she’s a Tory so she’s guaranteed to be full of shit. Mo Gawdat – we’ve a feeling an ‘AI pioneer’ will be in favour of it, somehow. Laura Gilbert – another Blair flunky working tirelessly to fucking foist AI on us. And Victor Riparbelli, another fucking AI bossman! This panel is about as balanced as a see-saw with five Sam Altmans on one side and no cunt on the other! Could they seriously not find anyone to make the case for the landscape not being carpeted with the skulls of humanity for our remorseless AI overlords to fucking stomp across?

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Visit the Aldi middle aisle with Sir Paul McCartney

HI folks! Sir Paul McCartney here. Beatles legend. Affable Scouser. Macca to his mates. I’m doing my famous thumbs up with my mouth open. You love that, don’t you? Well it is bloody iconic. 

I’m currently immersed in the press tour for my 19th solo album The Boys of Dungeon Lane, and no, I have no idea who’s still buying these things either. But these days, instead of rock and roll behaviour like throwing a TV out of a hotel window, not that I’ve ever done that myself, I’m into the simple pleasures – namely the middle aisle of Aldi.

So come with me as I visit the big Aldi in Hull. I’m wearing sunglasses to maintain my anonymity while I walk around singing Love Me Do with an acoustic guitar. Obviously I’ll graciously sign autographs in the unlikely event that people recognise me.

It’s Spanish Week in store but I forgo the Sangria spice mixes and head to the middle aisle of dreams. My sanctuary. My spiritual home. My Strawberry Fields.

What will I impulse buy this week? Some ice cube trays? A solar-powered garden light in the shape of a hedgehog driving a car? Or even a multipack of VK alcopops – £7.99 for ten. Not bad. The treasures are endless.

After a quick spiritual conflab with the ghosts of John and George I decide on some giant marshmallows, ten yoga mats and a gazebo – a snip at just £129.99. And the best thing is there’s a 30-day returns policy – handy for those times my wife insists I don’t need a pair of night vision goggles. Which I feel is a moot point.

These days I keep touring as as much for the access to Aldi bargains as the music or the fans. I’m forever trying to make gigs dovetail smoothly with a whizz round my favourite German multinational family-owned discount supermarket chain. 

There I’ll be in Rio, trying to ask the locals ‘Where is the nearest retail park?’ in broken Portuguese, or hoping Aldi has finally expanded into Japan. I’ve been robbed at gunpoint in the Brazilian favelas a few times, but a faint heart never won a pair of fuchsia kettle bells and a jumbo pack of dog food – which is worth having in case I buy a dog.

Yes, it’s the Aldi special deals I’m living for these days. Age comes to us all, but I’ll follow my passion as long as I’m able. And who knows, I could probably crank out an album about Aldi bargains? I’ll see if Ringo and Chrissie Hynde are up for it. 

But for now I’m content to browse the pilates machines, paddling pools and firelighters – a ‘magical mystery tour’, if you will. So this is Macca signing off. Thumbs up, mouth open, obviously.

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