The Archbishop of Canterbury on... do you want some working-class credibility with that?

20th September 2024

WAKING with a hangover whose vibrations trigger my burglar alarm, I reflect on the week’s events. With Morrissey having somewhat huffily ceded rights to the name ‘The Smiths’, the guitarist of that ensemble has invited various guest vocalists to tour with his iteration of the beat group.

I was intrigued to receive such an invitation on my silver letter tray. I felt it could be a first-rate way of spreading the Good Word if I were to appear at a concert with The Smiths.

Suffering ‘stage nerves’ I do imbibe a few fortifying gallons of rum for courage prior to the event – which went extraordinarily well, to my mind. In full cassock and mitre, brandishing my staff like a gladioli, I swayed and cavorted through a version of This Charming Man, performed a repurposed number called Starmer On The Guillotine and concluded the concert by setting fire to a giant Union Jack flag and hurling it into the audience. The music site Pitchfork scored the gig an unprecedented 11.2 out of ten.

Satisfied with my one-off efforts, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Donald Trump, Republican presidential candidate, has been the target of a second assassination attempt.

Fuck me round the corner and back, are you beginning to shit it, Bone Spur Boy, or what? How fucking thrilled are you with the USA handing out deadly assault weapons to every fucking right-wing wacko who rocks up to the gun shop, no fucking questions asked? Bet you’re happy you’re a nice big fat high-profile target in a land with zero gun control and a zillion trigger-happy yeehaws on the fucking loose? They’ll have to prise the guns out of their cold dead hands, eh? They’ll be fucking prising bullets out of your cold, dead arse if they carry on at this fucking rate!

Prime minister Keir Starmer has come under fire for having taken numerous ‘freebies’ – suits, glasses and, it turns out, tickets to see Coldplay in Manchester, at a cost of £698.

You are fucking cocking me, right? You fucking compromised the integrity of your office, dumped the promise to end Tory sleaze, and showed you were open for business for bribery on any scale, large or small, for fucking Coldplay? Any hopes that you might try to create a mildly better world than the shit-infested, venal fucking chaos of the Tories are now floating away on the dead, grey, polluted waters that are the strains of fucking Coldplay!

Kemi Badenoch, contender for leader for the Conservative Party, has stated that she was ‘working class’ during a brief period in which she was working at McDonald’s.

Oh, seriously? You fucking think? Slumming it for a few weeks with dead-end jobbers made you honorary working class by fucking osmosis? Knowing that any time you could have pressed the fucking ‘Daddy’ button and been ejected out of that greasy, no hope shithole of a life in the time it took to send a fucking car around? Why do you give a shit about working class credentials anyway? You want to be leader of the fucking Tory party! The working classes exist to be exploited like fucking factory farm livestock to enrich you and your mates! Still, since your political career is going fucking nowhere, it might not hurt to namecheck a potential future employer.

Finally it seems that The Guardian have published a feature entitled ‘Britishcore – 100 experiences that define and unite modern Britons’. It includes ‘Having a mate called Danny whose nickname is Danzo ‘cuz he’s the king of Lanzo’ and ‘Referring to Buckingham Palace as “Bucky” or “Bucko Pal”’. Also: ‘My wife told me to stop playing Wonderwall – I said “Maybe…”’

You know, since the James Webb Space Telescope came online in 2022, numerous distant galaxies far beyond what could be seen by the Hubble Telescope have been discovered, thanks to its capability of looking far into the infrared. These include the as yet unnamed F200DB 0-45, S5-z17-1 and SMACS-z16b. It is to any fucking one of these galaxies that I invite the fucking commissioners and compilers of this wanking dog’s cunt of a feature to hurl themselves! Seriously, Oasis reforming has completely broken the already wobbled minds of the slack-jawed Nathan Barleys in the glassily amoral, liberal media establishment! Just absolutely fuck the fuck off, you cuntlike cunts!

Sabrina Carpenter assesses whether that rash is anything to be concerned about

19th September 2024

Sabrina Carpenter is the hottest thing in pop, but also a keen amateur expert on minor conditions like ear wax, halitosis and athlete’s foot. This week she has a look at that nasty rash for you.

HEY y’all. When I squeezed my perfect figure into that Bob Mackie vintage dress for the VMAs last week, several members of my glam squad noticed a rash on my left butt cheek. I immediately panicked, even though most rashes are harmless and clear up on their own.

I managed to style out the rest of the night and take home a Moon Man trophy for my song Espresso. Even old people like you know that because they play it on Radio 2. Anyway, a course of hydrocortisone cream and it was fine, but I must admit it put a dampener on things. The rash, I mean, not the fact that Vernon Kay plays my records.

So you’d like me to take a look at that nasty rash that’s been troubling you? No problem. I say we head back to my modest mansion and let’s conduct a proper examination.

Okay, hop up on that doctor’s couch I got specially for my interesting hobby of backstreet medicine. I’ve lost count of how many A-listers I’ve treated on there – removing Taylor Swift’s skin tags, plucking out Megan Thee Stallion’s ingrowing nose hairs, burning off Dua Lipa’s warts. And Chappell Roan’s haemorrhoids were something to behold.

Okay, take your pants off while I get my latex gloves on. Oh guys. If any of you have started jacking off over that last sentence, grow up, this is a medical procedure, okay? So the rash doesn’t sting? Good. There are no bumps or blisters? No fluids? Come on guys, stop being so juvenile.

I’ve grabbed a pint glass from the kitchen, a Madri one I stole from Wetherspoons, and I’m going to roll it on the rash. Ah. It fades nicely, so my prognosis is nothing too serious, just a straightforward case of hives. A few antihistamines and Bob’s your uncle. Sabrina’s ‘professional’ opinion? Nothing to worry about. But try not to overindulge in spicy food or alcohol.

I’d urge everyone to get rashes checked out. I dated a guy once who had several of them. Left untreated they all joined up into one big mega-rash. Eventually he was more rash than man. So he had to go. I can’t be seen attending red carpet premieres and awards with a big flaky man-rash on my arm. I’ve got albums to shift.

Anyway, I’m due at the studio, so if symptoms persist, seek professional medical help. Laters, Sabrina xoxoxox