WAKING in my own bed, I am startled to discover I lie beside a slumbering horse.
I rack my brains, still foggy from the previous evening’s episcopal revelries, hoping that in my cups I did not perform some act contrary to the prohibitions of Leviticus 18:23.
Pulling back the sheets, however, I realise that the horse is not sleeping but dead and not a full animal but just a head. Evidently a prank pulled by my house guest Cardinal Ravinelli, cineaste and trickster, following an animated discussion about the plausibility of The Godfather.
Carefully setting the horse’s head to one side, I repair to my kitchen to peruse the periodicals. Therein I read that Liz Truss has promised that her government’s policy will be ‘Growth, growth, growth’.
St Paul’s cuntflake on the road to Damascus, with fucking what? What are we gonna subsist on in the Land of Fuck All you’re laughingly presiding over? What will people eat? Their unpayable energy bills, smeared with mud? The minced remains of frozen pensioners? Growth!? You are a fucking growth! A fucking malignant lump on the neck of the body politic! The only thing that’s growing under you is Labour’s lead in the polls, and given the sorry, spineless sack of button-eyed suet they’re led by, that’s fucking saying something!
Laura Kuenssberg interviewed the Prime Minister last Sunday, in which she expressed concerns about the ‘optics’ of a mini-budget which transferred large sums of money from the poor to the rich.
Wank a fucking wombat dry, ‘optics’? Everything’s cosmetic with you cunts, isn’t it? It’s not a mirage, or a piece of modern street theatre, or a David Blaine magic trick, it fucking is what it fucking is! ‘Optics’ my grey arse! You’re so fucking docile, Kuenssberg! Afraid if you say the wrong thing you might not get invited to the Spectator garden party? You’re half a yard up the Tories’ arse! And if you shone a fucking torch, you’d see Fiona Bruce wedged further up the sphincter!
Jeremy Clarkson has been ordered him to close down the cafe at his Oxfordshire farm, Diddly Squat, on the grounds that it is ‘incompatible with its open countryside location’.
You know, as I often remind my flock, in Luke 12:24 we read, ‘Consider the ravens’. Well, fuck the ravens for the time being. Consider Jeremy Clarkson. Every morning, he gets up, opens a car magazine and has a wank, irons his jeans, puts on his green wellies, takes a deep breath and thinks to himself, ‘How can I strive to my utmost to be an absolute prick today?’ Calling your fucking farm ‘Diddly Squat’ was reason enough for you to be run out on a rail and dumped in the first available ditch! You and your general presence in Oxfordshire are as compatible with the open countryside location as an open-cast uranium mine!
Finally, the Mail group is being sued by a group including Prince Harry, Elton John, Sadie Frost and Doreen Lawrence, for serious illegal newsgathering including allegations of burglaries and landline tapping.
Well, brothers and sisters, break out the gospel and join me in a chorus of ‘Oh Happy Day’! They’re gonna get sunk like the Belgrano, so just rejoice! The worst, meanest, Nazi-cheering, self-righteous, blustering, pinched-faced, hypocritical, censorious, upskirting, racist, downright fucking evil rag in Britain, not worth the shit you’d use it to wipe from your arse in a emergency, could be destroyed! You’ve conspired on a daily basis to keep us in our place through a toxic mix of petty spite, bullying paranoia and grovelling sycophancy! And now you’re going to be exposed for the criminals that you are and Paul Dacre will end his days as a prisoner’s bride!
