The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Reform voters: zombies who've eaten their own brains

WAKING with a hangover that has caused me to throw up a large chunk of my liver, I swallow an aspirin and reflect on a request for spiritual guidance on the LA wildfires.

I have three expatriate parishioners from America who, I regret to say, are of an irritatingly religious bent and believe I share their delusions. They approached me regarding the regrettable fires in Los Angeles and asked if this was due to God’s wrath against their country.

‘Doesn’t work like that,’ I sniffed.

‘Then what can be done?’

‘Try praying,’ I said. ‘I’ve a prayer room you can use.’

I escorted them to the prayer room, containing some bread and water and a bucket for bodily ejections and locked them in. ‘Pray, as hard as you can, as long as you can. I’ll be back this time tomorrow.’

I returned the next day and unlocked the door. They looked bedraggled following their marathon supplication. ‘Have the fires abated?’ they asked.

‘Afraid not. If anything, they’re getting worse.’ I tossed them a newspaper. ‘Read all about it.’

Over the next few days, the same pattern played out. Looking ever more gaunt, especially after I withdrew their bread and water on day three, they asked if their efforts had had any effect, only for me to reply in the negative. 

On day six I found them prostrate, on the verge of unconsciousness. I had my clerk call 999. 

‘I think we’ve learned a lesson about the power of fucking prayer, haven’t we?’ I said to them, as they were stretchered to the ambulance.  

Chuckling at my wise spiritual mentoring, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Keir Starmer has invested his hopes in AI, stating that Britain will ‘become one of the great AI superpowers’.

Fuck my dead dog with its severed cock, AI? I know you look like a shit, AI-generated version of a prime minister, but you’re expecting a lot from technology whose only real-world applications are replacing human workers with infuriating bots and possibly fucking annihilating us for being surplus to requirements! Go back to the headbangers’ circle that passes for your brains trust and tell them to think harder, you dense cunt! Because as a rule, countries don’t become superpowers thanks to technology which is only good for generating porno images for weirdoes with fucking centaur fetishes and shit!

A recent poll has shown that the Reform party are just one point behind Labour, with 25 per cent to Labour’s 26.

Jesus, I don’t condone travelling into the shires and machine gunning people at random, but after reading stuff like this I can see where the fucking urge comes from! A quarter of the fucking voting population? What kind of choleric cunt watches the news and comes to the conclusion that the Tories – Badenoch, Jenrick and the fucking rest of them – aren’t right-wing enough for their liking, so we’d better get that reptilian fucking spiv Farage to run the country? They’re like fucking zombies, only it’s their own brains they’ve eaten, not other people’s!

Tulip Siddiq has resigned as treasury minister due to a controversy over her relationship with the ousted Bangladeshi government – her Aunt was prime minister – and for taking a King’s Cross apartment, one of several properties she owns, from a developer with connections to the deposed regime.

Jesus H cockrot, did you not think this might look bad? What the fuck is up with this government, hoovering up freebies and thinking no one’s gonna notice? Either you’re incredibly gullible and stupid, or a fucking liar, or, knowing the calibre of Labour right now and the sort of people who rise to the top, a combination of all three! You’re coated in more sleaze than cormorants in a fucking oil slick, the lot of you! Except seabirds don’t get 75 grand’s worth of free fish from fucking corporate donors!

Finally, following rumours that Elon Musk is interested in buying Liverpool FC, angry fans have spoken about the unique ‘ethos’ and ‘philosophy’ of the club, as evidenced in their frequently-made assertion that supporting Liverpool is ‘different’ to any other club.

Oh fuck me, enough with this soppy fucking bullshit! You try to win games, win ugly if necessary, bend the rules when you can get away with it, and make fucking money! That’s your ‘ethos’. It’s not fucking Spinoza! You’re exactly the same as any other club! The only thing that’s fucking different about Liverpool is that no other team’s supporters bleat on so repeatedly, self-righteously and smugly about how fucking ‘different’ they are! Give it a rest! If I wanted to OD on mawkish Scouse shit, I’d binge-watch fucking Bread!

Cow tipping in Dyfed, with Zendaya

HEY everyone! Zendaya here. The most famous person in the world if you’re under 25. So famous I’m known by only one name, like Cher, Bono or Shipman. 

But I’m not here to promote one of my hit movies or dazzle on the red carpet. No, I’m here to make a confession. For many years now I’ve spent my free time cow tipping by moonlight in a very specific region of south west Wales.

Forget the Oscars, f**k the Emmys. You simply cannot beat the frisson of excitement you get from pushing over a large bovine on a farm just outside Haverfordwest then running off. Often to shoot a campaign for Hilfiger or Lacombe. 

My obsession started in 2017 just after The Greatest Showman when I was trying to depressurise after being contractually obliged to listen to Hugh Jackman sing for nine months. And now I’m an A-lister it’s not easy to find time between feature films like Dune 3 to keep my hand in at tipping. But I do my best. 

Plus there’s the more practical fact that I weigh six stone. Occasionally I’ve tried to take a co-star, but Timothee Chalamet just wasn’t into it. He stepped in a cowpat and cried for a good 45 minutes, the pussy. 

And things can get hairy. A few times a livid farmer has pulled a shotgun on me. I’m talking about Farmer Evans from Milford Haven and Farmer Jones from Carmarthen. If you’re reading this, buddy: F**K YOU! 

So sometimes I’m forced to use the badass stunt fighting skills I learned on Dune to incapacitate angry local hicks. Then I set fire to their barns and outbuildings to teach them a lesson. It’s gotta be done.

I can see not everyone might approve of cow tipping, but it isn’t like I haven’t tried to kick the habit. My secret fiance (whoops) Tom Holland tried to put me off shoving over dumbass dairy cattle in the dead of night by introducing me to other peculiar British pastimes: conkers, going ‘car booting’, shouting obscenities at the away team’s goalie on the terraces at Spurs. 

But nothing matches the high of toppling a bunch of dumb cows then legging it and hiding in a ditch while a confused Welshman goes mental. In this crazy Hollywood world, the simple things in life are precious to me. Sydney Sweeney has expressed an interest.