The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Liam twatting Gallagher

PERUSING the Archbishop’s Gazette, a periodical devoted to the interests, hobbies and fetishes of Archbishops home and abroad, I read about the chief executive of P&O Ferries.

The boss of the firm that sacked 800 seafarers last week, told a Commons select committee that while there was ‘absolutely no doubt’ P&O should have consulted the unions ‘we chose not to do that.’

Shag a fucking donkey, as I was only saying at Morning Service the other day: ‘I’ve come across some odious, flab-faced fucking twats in my fucking time but this Hebblethwaite takes the fucking biscuit, smears it with his own fucking smegma, teases a fucking starving dog with it then swallows it fucking whole! We now turn to hymn number 142.’ What an ocean-going gaping arsehole of a fucking human being! If he were ‘accidentally’ to fall in the sea, I can imagine one of his fucking panels telling an inquiry ‘There was absolutely no doubt we should have thrown him a rubber ring but we chose not to do that. We chose to point and laugh and throw dry roasted peanuts at the cunt instead.’

The Chancellor Rishi Sunak has hit out at criticism of his mini-budget which, say his detractors, does nothing to alleviate the cost of living crisis for the UK’s poorest. ‘We can’t do everything,’ he has said.

Jumping Jesus on a fucking spacehopper, you haven’t fucking done anything, you pop-eyed prick! Except siphon yet more money to your rich mates because you’re a fucking Tory and that’s what fucking Tories do! Look at you, on the fucking front bench there between Johnson and Patel, a cunt between two fucking thorns! What the fuck are the poor supposed to do about their kids? Sell them as cheap labour to P&O Ferries? Eat them to help out? No cunt should be Chancellor when their fucking personal budget is bigger than the actual budget!

One of my curates interrupts me during an ecumenical meeting with a Roman Catholic counterpart to advise me that Liam Gallagher has announced plans to release a new album, C’mon You Know. Gallagher told Chris Moyles that he ‘takes a few chances’ on the record but that he still sounds ‘mega’.

Shit my fucking cassock, how thick, lumpen and out of ideas about how to exist would you have to fucking be to want to buy an album by that poxy, rat-faced fuckwit Liam Gallagher? ‘Takes a few chances’? Ooh, gosh, did you use a keyboard for five fucking seconds, you trailblazing risk-taker? Seriously, I’d just as soon listen to a Chris Moyles album than a Liam Gallagher album. Two twats with fuck all to say who spend all fucking day saying it!

Finally, I ask of my flock that they turn their thoughts to the Royal Family. The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge’s tour of Jamaica did not go entirely as planned, with protests and the country’s Prime Minister declaring in front of the couple that he would prefer the Queen were not head of his country any more.

Jesus H Cunt on a giant Twizzle, can you blame the fucker? It’s fucking 2022 and this pair of vapid fucking robo-royals are swanning about the place like something from a fucking 1937 Boys Own Annual! I’m not surprised they’re pissed off. We stole all their sugar, enslaved their ancestors and we think we can make it up to them by standing on the back of a fucking truck and waving at them? Guillotine every last Royal, it’s the only language the inbred fuckwits understand!

A spear has been driven through the heart of Britannia. The murderer? Rishi Sunak

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist slightly to the right of Hitler

MOURN Britannia, for she is no more. The colossus which once bestrode the globe has been murdered, her country dead, its natives doomed. The murder weapon? Rishi Sunak’s budget.

Her corpse lies, violated, at Westminster. Its lifeblood of Boadicea, of Shakespeare, of Spitfires and Edward Elgar and Cheggers Plays Pop ebbed into the Thames. The fingerprints on the murder weapon? Rishi Sunak’s budget.

Once, like so many, I believed in Rishi. His independent wealth, his youthful hoodies, his humbling lack of stature. I believed that finally, after fifth columnist Phillip Hammond and Cuban coke connection Osborne, we had a chancellor we could be proud of.

But yesterday? When he had the golden opportunity to announce, finally, that the misguided post-war dream of the welfare state was over? When any sensible chancellor would have abolished all taxes and all public services and let Britain fly free?

Imagine. No more welfare-scrounging pensioners enjoying eternal life on our cash. No more NHS healing the weak. No more regulations stopping our businesses competing with Chinese child labour. Just unstoppable, unending success forever.

No National Insurance. No fuel duty. No income tax. No road tax. No capital gains tax. The money would flood in. We’d be stuffed to bursting with foreign cash.

I can’t have been the only one trembling on the edge of the sofa when Rishi stood up. It wasn’t just me thinking ‘this is it. This is when he announces net zero – for taxation.’ I won’t deny I was soaking wet downstairs.

Instead? Rishi the butcher pulled out his long knives and slaughtered this country. Like in the mid-90s martial arts film Butterfly and Sword starring Donnie Yen, we have already been hacked to pieces. The moment we take a step we will fall into bloody gobbets.

Sunak stabbed the Conservative party between the eyes and pulled out its wet brain. He disembowelled our world-leading City. He punched his bare fingers through the ribcage of our island’s proud history and squeezed its heart in his merciless fist.

The police report will read: ‘Cause of death? Murder. The murder weapon? A 1.25 per cent rise in National Insurance contributions.’

‘The killer? Still at large. But by God we’re going to catch him. And when we do? He’ll be hung, drawn and quartered at Old Palace Yard.’