The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Clarkson - just who we f**king need right now

9th August 2024

WAKING with a painful cranium, fortunately the result of alcohol and not a half-brick to the back of the head like the amusing chap in Southport, I reflect on the troubling events of the past week.

With members of the racist far-right having spent the week looting, rioting and committing arson, I decide to appear on live TV to issue a plea to the agitators.

‘In times of strife we must remember Our Lord’s message of peace and brotherly love. To those of you planning demonstrations against our Muslim friends or other people of colour, I plead that you come and talk to me personally so we can come to some resolution. My door is always open.’

Sure enough, the day riots are planned in London, a few of these far-right fellows do trickle through my door, tattooed, snorting hard, fists clenched. Upon which a handpicked team of my burlier clerks set about them and beat the living shit out of them.

Currently they lie moaning in a pile in the crypt, but I have no doubt someone will attend to them eventually. And so I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Robert Jenrick, possible future leader of the Conservative Party, has opined that anyone who shouts ‘Allahu Akbar’, meaning ‘God is great’, in the street should be arrested immediately.

Fuck me, you toad-faced, suited lump of dung, for fucking what? I mean, the night the BBC exit poll came in confirming you Tories were fucked, I rushed out into the street and shouted, ‘Thank God for that!’ You reckon I should have had my collar felt for that? Or is that alright because it’s the nice, white, bearded God? If you were some senile old Tory twat whose brain fossilised in the fucking 80s that’d be one thing but you’re barely fucking 40! You’re too young to remember Britpop properly! What next, Grandpa Jenrick, complaining about fucking decimal coins?

Kate Hoey, the former Labour MP now sitting in the House of Lords, replied sympathetically to a tweet by journalist Julia Hartley-Brewer after she was accused of helping foster the toxic anti-immigrant atmosphere that led to the riots. Hoey wrote: ‘It is ridiculous that people who discuss the scale of immigration and who worry about some groups’ failure to properly integrate get more flak than those who – without consent – presided over mass immigration.’

Jesus to Holy fuck and back on a fucking shitestick, what was a swivel-eyed, Brexit-pushing, dreadful fucking goon like you ever doing in the Labour Party? The only group who’ve failed to fucking integrate into modern Britain are the dense-as-pigshit, coked-up fucking collective human binfire that are the fucking rioters! As for Hartley-Brewer, you’ve spent 20 years shit-stirring and and now you wonder why the fucking U-bend is blocked? Give me fucking strength.

The theory of ‘two-tier policing’ has gained some traction this week. According to the likes of right-wing academic Matt Goodwin and Nigel Farage it means that left-wing demonstrators enjoy more lenient policing than the far-right.

Yeah? Well I’ll tell you what, there might be a fucking reason for that. When left-wing people demonstrate against, I don’t know, genocide, they manage to make their fucking point without setting fire to hotels, looting fucking Greggs and generally behaving like such appalling cunts the police have no option but to let their dogs bite their arses! Unfortunately the low fucking bar of ‘not burning a fucking library’ is a standard of behaviour the far-right are no more up to than keeping their fucking trackies pulled up!

Finally, Jeremy Clarkson has spoken out on the current state of affairs. ‘I’m surrounded by farmers, brickies and butchers and all I hear is, there’s too much immigration. The London elite calls them far-right thugs but they’re just normal people.’

Ah, pity poor Clarkson. Forced to eke out a living as best he can in one of the most deprived areas of Britain, the Cotswolds, noted for being fucking overrun by immigration. From his smallholding, as he digs for potatoes to subsist on with just his hoe, he stares out at what were once beautiful fields, now chock-full with mosques, with him and his builder, brickie and farming friends forced to submit to sharia law. Oh, get a grip you ironed-jeaned, copper-bottomed cunt, and stick with your crappy car programmes like some televised fucking mid-life crisis!

15th century hospitality at bloody 21st century prices: The gammon food critic's medieval banquet

8th August 2024

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who stopped watching the Olympics as soon as the women’s beach volleyball finished.

I KNOW my stuff when it comes to ye olde medieval days of yore. I’ve watched the entire boxset of Merlin six times. Mostly for wanking over Katie McGrath when Morgana turns evil and sexy, but that’s beside the point.

It was a glorious time in Great British history. The Viking invaders had long since been sent packing in their boats – something we could learn from at Dover today – and women knew their place. So when I saw a medieval banquet up the road at Warwick Castle I thought, why not?

I’ve not been out in ages, and I reasoned there would be a smattering of GILFs ready for a bit of medieval bawdiness after a few drinks. To be brutally honest, it does feel like it was 1348 since I last had a shag.

One thing’s definitely not medieval though, and that’s the f**king prices. Nearly 80 quid a sodding ticket? No wonder the peasants kept rebelling.

When I arrive there’s a ‘complimentary’ glass of mead, which I’ve never had before and sounds promising. Wrong. It’s cloying, overly sweet, and like downing a can of Special Brew while sucking a honey and lemon Locket.

There’s also a trebuchet demonstration in the grounds pre-dinner. I ruminate on how wonderful it would be to put my ex-wife in it and catapult her into the f**king moat. Or a wall. That would justify the ticket price.

I take my seat and wittily quip to the chap next to me that we ought to be sitting at a Round Table. He snottily replies I’m nearly 1,000 years out on the timeline. Trust me to get put next to a f**king history teacher.

I down my two goblets of included ale before the first course arrives. Not my fault the goblets are bloody tiny. Thankfully Mr F**king History Lesson tells the barmaid he’s driving, so like the valiant knight in shining armour I am, I step in and tell her to give me his.

First course is leek and potato soup. Which is going some given the first spuds didn’t arrive here until the late 16th century, apparently. It’s okay, but with all that mead and ale already sloshing around in my gut, the solitary bread roll is having difficulty soaking everything up.

Onto mains, and it’s venison and mushroom casserole with roast potatoes. I was expecting unicorn at this price, but whatever. Then, gloriously, sticky toffee pudding. I’ve no idea if it’s historically authentic, and quite honestly, don’t care. Pisses me off it comes with ‘creme anglaise’, mind. This is England, it’s called f**king custard.

My historical journey over, I decide to try and catch last orders as there’s not much chance of being noshed of by a buxom serving wench here.

I grab my coat and disappear into the night, just like Lancelot after ill-advisedly boning Queen Guinevere. Although he probably didn’t walk into a table because he was surprisingly pissed.