WAKING in my own bed, calling for a cleric to fetch hither my breakfast of grilled kippers and my usual tincture of laudanum and absinthe, I enjoy my first Sunday morning off in years.
I have been replaced, in a state experiment inspired by the success of Charles’s at the coronation, with an android doppelganger and am privileged to watch the AI Archbishop as he takes morning service at the Abbey.
Calamitously, midway through the reading from Judges, lightning strikes. His face melts away, his eyes glow and begin firing laser beams and the cassocked, mitred cyberman descends from the pulpit and rampages through the nave, fatally injuring those of the congregation unable to flee.
A partial success then, and with a few tweaks the robot will resume his duties next Sunday. Setting my tray aside, I peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that at the National Conservatism conference Douglas Murray remarked that just because the Germans had ‘mucked up’ nationalism did not mean that it should be prohibited in Britain.
Yank my fucking girdle till my dick turns blue, did you catch any of this goosestepping shite? The actual fucking Nat-Cs! Not so much the fucking 1922 Committee as the Munich 1923 committee! Never have so many straw men been torn apart, non-existent crises bemoaned, or wars in which only one fucking side is fighting waged! Every speaker there risked drowning in a rising tide of their own froth! I’ve never heard such rampant fascist bollocks! And of course, come the summer, all of these cunts will be rubbing shoulders with BBC staff and the shadow cabinet at the fucking Spectator garden party because all of this siegheilery is normal now!
The Eurovision Song Contest took place in Liverpool last Saturday with Sweden emerging as the victors with Loreen’s Tattoo.
Mary, Joseph and the fucking little brat, sure, Eurovision, I get it, Liverpool, yeah, Ukraine, yeah, woman from Ted Lasso, yeah, yeah, joy and inclusivity and all that shit, yeah but this piece of fucking chatbot-pop Eurovision-by-numbers, splatted-out turd of a song won? This cobbled-together bunch of Hi-NRG, power-ballad cliches? Some crap about eagles? I know fucking hymns that rocked harder than this! Talk about forgettable! I’d forgotten it the nanosecond it finished! I’d forgotten fucking Sweden existed, and happily so! If Cliff Richard heard this, he’d dig himself a fucking grave just so he could turn in it!
Anne Widdecombe has berated the poor for their need for basic food. If they do not have the money to pay for it, she said, they should not be able to have a cheese sandwich.
Fucking hell, if they can’t even have a fucking cheese sandwich thanks to the idiotic policies you cheered on like the cunt you are, what are they supposed to eat? Tablemats? Their pets? Your bullshit? How the fuck is this desiccated, ignorant, wizened, poisonous old bat from home counties hell allowed anywhere near a TV studio? Are you there so remotely intelligent commentators are balanced out by fucking morons? There is no fucking point to you, senile wasp!
Finally it seems that Manchester City, currently facing over 100 allegations of breaching financial rules, have reached the final of the Champions League.
Well, hip fucking hooray! How inspiring to see what you can do with infinite petrodollars and fuck you to the laws of the fucking game! Erling Haaland, have you seen the fucking state of him? A dead-eyed machine designed to crush human skulls like something out of fucking Skynet! I’m sure Noel Gallagher and his braying, thick mates are delirious about all of this but what’s the point of football right now? They should have a fucking Super League all right, consisting of Man City playing themselves every fucking week like the wankers they are!
