The Archbishop of Canterbury on... remembering to have kids with just the one you're married to

13th September 2024

WAKING up with a hangover that, I note in the mirror, is causing my head to glow bright green, I decide the only way to settle the matter of whether Catholicism or Protestantism is the better form of Christianity – Methodists, like the Liberal Democrats, do not count – is with a pissing contest.

I have one of my clerks publicly issue a challenge to this effect, addressed directly to His Holiness Pope Francis, to take place in the neutral country of Belgium. Although initially reluctant, the Pontiff is urged by his advisors to agree to the contest. And so, to great international interest, myself and my team and Pope Francis and his people assemble by a tall wall in the city of Ghent.

A local official declares ‘Let the urination commence!’ and I go first, achieving an impressive height of eight feet, having filled my bladder to the hilt. Pope Francis follows; despite his frailty, he attains an astonishing height of 40 feet. However, following an inquiry, a length of firehouse is discovered beneath the Pontiff’s white raiment. The contest ends in fist fights and chaos and is declared abandoned.

And so, this great truth unresolved, I return to London, take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that the government have succeeded in passing a bill cutting winter fuel allowance for all but the poorest pensioners. It was considered important that they not back down so as not to look ‘weak’.

Well, fuck me without pulling my trousers down, better a few hundred pensioners freeze to death to save a fucking pittance than Keir Starmer should look ‘weak’! Are you shitting us? That fucking train left years ago! He’s the walking epitome of weak, a startled, fatuous, piggy-eyed, shortarsed, droning, already-loathed sweaty fucking pissflap! Nothing says ‘strength’ like making skint pensioners eat their pets to keep warm! And they’re not exactly going to be rushing to vote Labour next time, are they? The only positive you can claw back from this mess is that at least some of them will be fucking dead!

Robert Jenrick is now considered the frontrunner to be the new leader of the Conservative Party.

Fucking hell, Jenrick? That jowly pillar of fucking gammon fat? That thick, sadistic shower of fucking sadism, whose most notable achievement was to insist a mural at a refugee centre be painted over because… cunt? I’ll tell you what to do – vote for him! Fucking do it, ranks of Tory scum! Elect this human stake in the heart of any hope the Conservatives have of being reelected before the year 2050! Better still, vote for Kemi! Then we won’t have to put up with you till fucking 3000!

Dave Grohl of The Foo Fighters has hit the headlines after his revelation that he fathered a child with a woman who was not his wife. Grohl, who already has three daughters, promised to be a ‘loving and supportive parent’ in his social media announcement about the child.

Fuck’s sake, man! Is it really that hard to keep your fucking dick in your trousers? You know, with this whole ‘husband and father’ thing you’ve got going on? One job, that’s all you had to do – dick in trousers and free of disease. But oh no, you’re such an attention-craving fucking pillock you can’t do that, can you? And I’ll tell you what – it fucking smacks of compensating for only being the drummer in Nirvana. Tough shit. Drummers don’t get as many blowjobs because they’re weird nerds who sit at the back. That’s just how God fucking made it.

Finally, Donald Trump raised eyebrows with some of his remarks in this week’s debate with Kamala Harris by asserting that Haitian immigrants in Ohio were eating the cats and dogs of residents and that Harris ‘wants to do transgender operations on illegal aliens who are in prison’.

You know, we’ve all had a fucking laugh at Trump, but cunting fucking Christ on a dead donkey, how is a man like this, not just a fucking Nazi-in-waiting, not just a lying, pouting, gigantic man-baby, but someone in an advanced state of delirium who clearly belongs on a drip in a pair of diapers in a hospital ward, how the fuck is he still in with a chance of RUNNING THE FUCKING WORLD? We have Donald Trumps in the UK! We put them in fucking care homes! Only in America, the worst but unfortunately most powerful country in the world, do they think of putting them in charge of absolutely fucking everything!

I attended one of the post-birth abortions Trump spoke of. They're real and they're horrific

12th September 2024

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who believes Starmer may as well admit failure and call an election now

THE liberal media has scoffed at them. Fact-checkers deny they exist. Both lie. I, as I told Donald Trump personally, have seen one with my own eyes.

Post-birth abortions, a healthcare policy spearheaded by Joe Biden’s Satanic abuse ring the Democrat party, are all the rage on America’s West Coast where the celebrities live.

Like you, I was incredulous when I heard. Doctors, blind drunk on the heady fumes of legal cannabis and a woman’s so-called ‘right to choose’, offering abortions for cash for up to six years after a child’s birth. And all legally.

I had to find out for myself. So, disguising myself as a billing agent, I snuck into a typical Santa Monica delivery room. Not knowing I would leave shaking, as covered in gore and changed forever as the policeman from Saw III.

‘Sure you want it?’ said the obstetrician casually, to a woman already in labour. They’d already explained there was no way of determining the sex of the baby until it was old enough to tell them, to which the parents replied ‘Obviously’.

‘Like it?’ the midwife asked when the baby was born. ‘Hmmm…’ replied the couple, who may or may not have been Hollywood liberals Katy Perry and Orlando Bloom. ‘Let’s try it with a different Instagram filter. Because I’m not feeling it.’

A grotesque 45 minutes of trying on outfits and photographing the newborn against Prada bags followed before the woman, who I cannot confirm was Lizzo, shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘It’s not what I hoped for.’ In the background a nurse fired up a wood chipper.

The couple – perhaps named Lively and Reynolds? – left the hospital cheerfully, waving at paparazzi. I staggered out of a rear exit, numb with shock at the depravity I’d seen. I called Trump that moment.

He wasn’t surprised. Like me, he has only to imagine a terrible, deviant action committed by his opponents and he knows it is real without any evidence. For both of us it is a gift and a curse.