WAKING with a familiar, dreaded sensation around my hindquarters, I realise that owing to an excess of spirituous liquor I have once again befouled myself. 

Which, as I told the congregation from the pulpit yesterday, brings us around to Christmas. ‘In 2023 there are numerous competing causes crying out for charitable donations, but this year I urge you to give generously to the Society for the Prevention of Loose Sphincters.’

‘Undertaking vital research to provide assistance for those whose enjoyment of alcohol is marred by involuntary defecation, they aim to make 2024 a year in which all of us can imbibe freely without fear of faecal explosion.’ I am pleased to say they gave generously.

Following a hosing down and a light breakfast, I peruse a periodical and I read Priti Patel has declared the Conservatives the party of ‘hard-working motorists’ and decried Labour for Ultra Low Emission Zones (ULEZ).

Fuck my dead dog and call it Christmas dinner, ‘hard working motorists’? Show me a motorist and I’ll show you a lazy cunt! If they weren’t, they’d fucking walk rather than choke up the environment swanning around on their fat arses! As for fucking ULEZ, it was your shambling shitsack mate Boris Johnson’s idea in 2015, you stupid twat! You couldn’t be more a fucking clown if you were in a backfiring car driven by a chimp in a fireman’s helmet!

Disc jockey and television personality Noel Edmonds has turned 75, it has emerged.

Jesus’s Turin wankcloth, Noel Fucking Edmonds. If you were to distill everything that’s tediously bumptious, irrelevantly angry and self-pitying, onanistically over-interested in anti-social modes of private transport and just flat-out twat, you’d come up with Noel fucking Edmonds! Building a career playing records despite palpably having no knowledge of or interest in pop whatsoever – you wouldn’t know a Rolling Stone if one bit you on the arse – sporting the same shit hair and beard like we were living in a permanent fucking 1974, it’s only standing next to Dave Lee Travis on Top Of The Pops all those years that made you seem less of the absolute arsehole than you are!

Keir Starmer visited Estonia this week, close to the Russian border. Despite there being no hostilities between the countries, he posed for cameras in a camouflaged military jacket.

And an absolute tit you looked as well! Fucking hell, what is it with politicians and cosplay? When you go to church, do you wear a cassock and a fucking mitre? I’m only surprised you weren’t wearing hi-viz over the fucking camo! Seriously, what focus group of fuckwits persuaded you this was a good idea? You were roundly mocked and rightly so! Even my arse laughed when it saw the pictures! Mind you, photos the next day of Rishi Sunak in combat trousers and a T-shirt were even worse! That’s the smorgasbord of options we have in British politics, folks – a tit, and even worse!

Finally, Christmas is almost upon us. At this holy time it feels appropriate, given my ecclesiastical position, to say a few words reflecting on the Yuletide season, its joys, and its deeper meaning. This is a transcript of my annual address.

See this finger? It’s my middle fucking finger. My middle finger and I am shoving it six inches up the arse and twisting it hard! Fuck Christmas! Starts in late September, ends in February when you’re still hoovering needles off your carpet! The annual exchange of plastic shit that’s killing us all, the consumption of fucking drinks that taste like liquid ice cream and custard for idiots who know fuck all about drinking and nativity plays up and down the country so shit they technically count as blasphemy! Fuck Christmas! Fuck compulsory happiness! Fuck having to spend time with people you avoid like an STD, rather than getting to spend it at home masturbating like a baboon! Fuck Christmas! They should rename it Cuntmas and have fucking done with it!