The Archbishop of Canterbury's review of the shitshow year

WAKING in the basket of a hot air balloon, a pastime I enjoy at years’ end combined with the consumption of alcoholic beverages, I realise that the balloon is descending rapidly. 

The problem is caused by the excess of bottles I have on board. I immediately jettison the empties, but it is not enough. To throw out the still unconsumed bottles, hand-picked from my cellars, would be unthinkable. I therefore take the only reasonable course of action.

I chug down 12 bottles of red wine, throw the empties at passing houses and urinate with all my might to lighten the balloon’s load. Mercifully, my efforts are sufficient and the balloon lands with a gentle thud in Regent’s Park.

I step out of the basket, nod benignly at a urine-doused family of four and repair to my chambers to take in a tumultuous year. For example, Liz Truss used her short time in office to conduct a radical economic experiment.

St Peter’s severed penis posted to the Corinthians, talk about sending in an arsonist to deal with the fucking heating bills! We can all warm our fucking hands this winter around the still raging fire of an absolutely fucked economy! Thanks a bunch, you off-the-fucking-spectrum psycho incompetent! All because you wanted to dress up as a prime minister with the hat and everything! Fuck you and the Tories you rode in on, you colossal, gormless tragedy of a fucking sub-human, unfit for the post of Downing Street cat’s clagnut-trimmer let alone leader of a country, for cunt’s sake!

2022 was also the year in which Her Majesty Elizabeth II died aged 96, triggering a period of national mourning.

Yeah, as I said in my first sermon the moment the embargo on anything but grovelling drivel was lifted, that’s two cocking, pissing, shitting, wanking weeks of my fucking life I’ll never get back! Hours and fucking hours of spurious fucking eulogising by professional sycophants could be boiled down to: she did and said fuck all about anything and would have made a good statue if she’d been a bit more animated! Did fuck all, that is, except put up the hush money for her nonce son, who she loved like a fucking Savile!

2022 was also the year in which Matt Hancock was relieved of the Tory whip for agreeing to participate in I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here! Many felt that his appearance on the show helped ‘humanise’ him.

You know, you can take a Boxing Day turd – steaming, alcohol-poisoned and slightly bloodied – and make a fucking gingerbread man out of it but that’s not making a fucking human! You can shove as many kangaroo testicles down the mouth of a man, pour as much wallaby shit over him as you like but a cunt remains a cunt no matter what! Sadly, the shitshow over which he previously presided – I’m In an Old People’s Home Rife With COVID… Get Me Out of Here! – wasn’t such a riproaring fucking success!

Piers Morgan, having left ITV in high dudgeon, starred in his own show Piers Morgan Uncensored on TalkTV.

And no-one fucking watched it, did they? Uncensored? You could have been naked taking a baboon from behind across the fucking desk and no one would have complained because no one was fucking watching! You confused being well-known with being well-liked, didn’t you? People weren’t fucking watching you, they were watching Good Morning Britain, not because it was good but because it was morning in Britain and it was fucking on! Everyone hates you, you towering, wrong-about-everything pillar of sheer cunt!

Prince Harry and Meghan Markle starred in a Netflix docmentary which enraged many commentators as they felt it undermined British traditions.

Yeah? And what fucking traditions would they be? Racism? Breathtaking rudeness? Feudal cocksucking? Nonce-shielding? Tax avoiding? Horse worship? Sustained psychological cruelty to preserve the facade of a rotting aristocratic edifice? Princess persecuting? Just fuck right off, you pack of brown-nosed, self-righteous, hypocritical-for-money twats!

Finally, 2022 was the year in which Rebekah Vardy lost her libel case against Coleen Rooney, a courtroom drama she launched which cost her an estimated £1.5 million.

Bless you, Rebekah fucking Vardy, bless you! Your wilful obliviousness to your own unbelievable, money-pissing doltishness kept a nation absolutely pissing itself in its darkest hours! ‘Davey Jones’ locker’ was the clincher! I bet even God, if he exists and just occasionally I think He just might, was laughing up in Heaven glad he created mankind after all for fucking moments like this. I shit you not, you should get a peerage for services to the nation’s morale! Take Michelle Mone’s seat, why the fuck not?

Sign up now to get
The Daily Mash
free Headlines email – every weekday

What did I first notice about my beautiful multi-millionaire wife? Her smile

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, Britain’s most recent prime minister

PEOPLE ask me, ‘Rishi, how did you and Akshata meet?’ and it is a lovely, romantic, relatable story about two ordinary people, one of whom is a multi-millionaire. 

And, since love is more important than material things here at Christmas while we’re trying to squeeze incomes to keep inflation down, I thought this would be a lovely time to share our story. 

It begins in 2005, when I attended Stanford University in California while remaining very British and down-to-earth and insisting on mugs of tea. It was there my eyes first met those of an enchanting creature across the quad. ‘Who is that?’ I gasped. 

‘It’s Akshata Murthy,’ sighed my roommate, who for a small stipend was also my friend, ‘as you well know. You’ve been following her since day one. We pattern our days around where she’ll be. I lift you on my shoulders so you can look through her class’s windows.’ 

But I barely heard a word he said because I was lost in this gorgeous vision’s dazzling smile. She wasn’t smiling at that particular moment, indeed she was scowling, but I could project and forecast a smile based on the data provided. 

Eventually, and quite by chance, we met. ‘You’ve passed both security checks and credit checks,’ she told me, ‘and my father likes your British citizenship. Go on. Impress me.’ 

Smitten, I reeled off my achievements: Goldman Sachs, a first from Oxford, head boy at Winchester. Her expression didn’t change. I mentioned my ambition to become prime minister and it curdled with disgust. 

‘Of India?’ she said. No, Britain, I explained. ‘Prime minister of Britain. Lord above. You might as well tell me you would like to keep a shop. Still, we don’t need two people with real ambition in a partnership.’ 

That day our hearts met, our 30-year plan was faxed over by her father and signed off by me, and I’ve not looked back since. 

It’s a story that’s above all aspirational, so Britain, when you find yourselves facing hard times for the next 18 months guaranteed, remember you too could do better like I did. Akshata has requested I add that she hates Christmas and has married down.