The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Home Alone 2? You are spoiling us, ITV

13th December 2024

WAKING up with a hangover whose throbbing vibrations can be felt in Chipping Ongar, I reflect on yesterday, a momentous day in my ministry.

Following the success of such journals as The Secret DJ, The Secret Barrister and The Secret Footballer, I yesterday published The Secret Archbishop Of Canterbury. Under the cloak of anonymity, it tells of debauchery, alcoholic excess, fist fights with Gloria Hunniford, of life behind the scenes – and often in front of the scenes.

One of my clerics did suggest to me that since I was the only Archbishop of Canterbury my identity would not be much of a secret. However I was disabused of any such qualms yesterday evening at a reception hosted by Prince William to launch a project tackling homelessness. I was availing myself of refreshments when the Prince himself sidled up to me.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Who do you think this Secret Archbishop of Canterbury is, then?’

I stared at him in silence for a moment. ‘You really are a thick cunt, aren’t you?’ I eventually observed.

My reflection over, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Saudi Arabia has been awarded the 2034 World Cup. FIFA’s decision, under the aegis of president Gianni Infantino, has perturbed many since Saudi Arabia has no free press, recently murdered a journalist and women’s rights are nonexistent. It will also mean another winter World Cup.

Rub my sphincter with a splinter of the true fucking cross, what kind of corrupt fucking outfit is FIFA? They make the Gambino family look like the fucking Partridge family! North Korea would be a more eligible candidate than fucking Saudi! I guess if they’d stumped up enough fucking ackers it would be Kim Jong Un, a right fucking Jong ‘un if ever I saw one, declaring the fucking 2034 World Cup open with a parade of nukes. Why do we keep letting these fucking criminals enshitten our lives? It’s fucking FIFA, they can’t have you ‘whacked’!

ITV’s Christmas Day schedule has been published. It will feature, among other televisual treats, Good Morning Britain (7am), James Martin’s Christmas Day (12pm) and at 3.10pm, following Prince Charles’s address to the nation, the 1992 film Home Alone 2.

Christ’s cock and fucking balls on a toilet wall, you really fucking put your backs into that one, didn’t you? That’d be shit for a Tuesday in February, never mind the fucking 25th of December. James Martin’s Christmas Day at midday? How the fuck do we know what sort of Christmas Day he’s having when it’s only halfway through? As for Home Alone 2, please, you’re fucking spoiling us! Macaulay Culkin’s bloody 44 now! A fucking charity shop wouldn’t sell a DVD of Home Alone 2 for fear of wasting shelf space!

Conservative Party leader Kemi Badenoch and Keir Starmer have engaged in a ‘food war’ this week, after Badenoch said that ‘lunch is for wimps’ but she sometimes had a steak around midday. Starmer’s spokesperson responded that he was surprised by this, and ‘the prime minister is quite happy with a sandwich lunch’. They added that he prefers a tuna or cheese toastie.

And there you fucking have it folks, the reason the UK is trundling like a knackered cart with a missing wheel down the hill to fucking perdition. The fucking grown-ups are in charge and rather than do anything to reverse our parlous slide, ie. actually do things that need to be fucking done, they’re chuntering about fucking steak and toasties to prove which one of them is a meat-eating apex predator and who’s the most super-normal guy. Will it impress voters? It’s certainly impressed on them the sort of oleaginous, grotesquely banal fucking shitheads who head up politics in this country! Get to fuck the fucking pair of you!

Finally, Wes Streeting has introduced a ban on puberty blockers for trans children under 18 because of ‘safety risks’, forcing many to go to France to get the treatment they need.

This is all you fucking know isn’t it, Streeting? Punching down on trans people for no coherent fucking reason, raising the risk of suicides and ravaging the mental health of one of the most demonised groups in the UK, just in the vain fucking hope of winning over a few Daily Mail readers and home counties bigots who’d never vote for you in a million fucking years! I’d smack you in the mouth, you cunt, but you’ve already got a face like fucking Tom’s after Jerry’s whacked him with a fucking spade!

How to finish the Belly Buster Fry-Up Challenge at Keith's Kaff in Torquay. By Ariana Grande

12th December 2024

HEY everybody, Ariana here! After endless press junkets and media appearances for Wicked I want to talk about my true passion – ramming down the full English at my favourite café in Torquay until I am uncomfortably stuffed.

Keith Whittaker might be a bald divorcee with an EDL tattoo, but my goodness, he knows his way around a grill. He puts his own blood, sweat and tears into his food. Literally. I’ve watched him swearing at the mushrooms.

It’s true gastronomy, and I’ve eaten at Noma. When I’m in the UK I visit at least six times, which annoys my manager because Torquay is miles away from London. I always order the ‘Belly Buster Fry-Up’ – a true challenge for someone like me who has to remain exactly six stone to stop Zendaya stealing my roles.

It comes on a platter – 12 bangers, 12 rashers, a mountain of beans, eight fried eggs, eight slices of fried bread, toast, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms and six satisfying pucks of black pudding. Hang that in the Louvre. It’s my calorie intake for an entire month. I’m literally salivating right now. When he brings it out, Keith plays Ride of the Valkyries on his CD player.

But how do you eat it all in under 30 minutes to get it free? Well, instead of ‘holding space’ emotionally for the lyrics of Defying Gravity I’ve been holding space for black pudding and bacon fried bread sarnies. Because the key is to combine items. That’s how I’ve managed to get my time down to 27 minutes – building in time for a little lay down and a tactical shit.

After the sarnies are gone, I tackle the sausages. My vocal range is the stuff of legend, so I have full larynx control. I swallow those without chewing like Scooby Doo in the cartoons. By now a group of scaffolders have usually gathered, charmingly calling me ‘darling’ and egging me on.

Speaking of eggs, I mush these up with the beans and spoon them down as fast as my beautiful little mouth will allow, slurping a pot of weak tea with six sugars as I go. If I get a clear run at things I can try to break the 25-minute barrier – but in ‘the Kaff’ you never know what’ll happen next. A welder might pinch your arse so you need to hit him with one of the plastic chairs. Or Mad Janine the local nutter might try a dine and dash. These can all disturb my flow.

I save the tomatoes and mushrooms until last because, let’s face it, those are the worst bits. And voila! I’ve just saved myself £11.99 by finishing it in a time of 28:57. Not my best, but not to be sniffed at. I step into my waiting limo hoping I’ve not spilled any runny yolk on my huge, powderpuff Giambattista Valli haute couture gown and head off to the BRITs.

God I love Keith’s Kaff. The atmosphere, the camaraderie, the free refills of Bovril. Their hygiene rating may be a two after the salmonella business but it’s a 10 from me!