The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Richard Madeley, absolutely the right person to discuss shoplifting

31st January 2025

WAKING with a hangover that has left my tongue feeling like a king-size foam mattress left out in the rain for several days, I reflect on the tumultuous events of the past week.

It occurred to me last Sunday that it was little wonder no one under the age of 75 goes to church anymore. It’s the hymns – pious, lumbering, Victorian dirges that the average person would willingly plunge their heads in boiling water to blot out.

I reasoned that the canon of hymns needed to be updated, and so, with the aid of a local ‘grime’ disc jockey to supply ‘banging’ beats, I set to work on composing a series of 21st century hymns, all of them free of archaism, giving thanks and praise to Our Lord in the bracing argot of our own time.

I unveiled a handful on Sunday: hymn number 63, Don’t Fuck With Jesus, You Sinning Little Twats. Hymn number 12, Ride God’s Glorious Magnificent Cock. Hymn number 37, Don’t Stare At Mother Mary’s Tits, You Bastard. And hymn number 74, Herod Is A Cunt.

By Wednesday there was standing room in the aisle only, even for morning weekday services, clearly a sign that God approves of His new playlist.

Reflecting on the necessity of moving with the times to survive, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Labour have approved plans for a third runway at Heathrow Airport.

Dead goat’s cock in a fucking bap, is there any ruinous, impractical, polluting proposal you cunts won’t countenance in the name of the great god Growth? Leaving aside the fact that there’s a place called ‘the planet’ we all have to live on, what the fuck makes you think people out there are desperate to visit this poxy, Brexit-blighted, fascist-shagging island when they could just as easily nip to fucking Paris? The only growth in this country is this fucking government, and it’s the malignant type on your neck you’re fucking relieved to get rid of!

Ex-GB News presenter ‘Father’ Calvin Robinson entertained attendees at a pro-life summit in Washington DC by delivering a Hitler salute in the style of Elon Musk.

Fuck me sideways, I’ve known some fucking dodgy left-footers in my time but this horrible phial of pure fuck takes the fucking dog biscuit! Seriously, though, are these the fucking Nazis now? A bunch of loser clowns and grifting fucking trolls? It’d be a damn sight easier to defeat these wankers than the actual fucking Nazis! The war would be over by 1941!

Joan Collins is to play Wallis Simpson, the wife of Edward VIII, in a new production depicting her later years. Collins is a keen monarchist who was awarded a Damehood in 2016.

Why the fuck do I know this? How did this desperately unimportant fact float towards my attention, like a turd in a public swimming pool? Decrepit old sycophant to play Nazi-sympathising super-rich parasite in fucking monarchist soft porn. Well I know about it now. It’s lodged in my brain like a splinter underneath a fucking fingernail, so there’s no reason why you shouldn’t suffer too. The irony is I would rather fuck Hitler with his toothbrush moustache tickling my neck than watch this fucking film!

Finally, GMTV presenter Richard Madeley has reported with great concern on a surge in shoplifting. Madeley himself faced charges of shoplifting in 1994, after an ‘oversight’ caused him to fail to pay for champagne at Tesco.

You know what, you weirdly-tanned, sanctimonious, hooting fucking hypocrite? Your worst crime wasn’t against Tesco, it’s the fucking TV career you’ve shoplifted since the 1980s. You’re a walking, talking waste of an artificial tan who should be no nearer to the fucking national discourse than Elon fucking Musk! How an obvious idiot like you manages to function without a shred of self-doubt is as much of a fucking mystery as people who function without kidneys! Also, what the fuck have you done with Judy? Are we going to have to come and dig up your back garden?

One wrong word and I'll end up on the menu: The gammon food critic's taste of Africa

30th January 2025

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who gets a disturbing stirring in his loins every time Trump is on the telly.

IT always feels out of order talking about Africa and food in the same breath. All those guilt trips from Oxfam with starving kiddies and asking for money. It’s enough to put you off your dinner.

I thought we sorted all that out with Live Aid anyway? Just a tax evasion scam for Bob Geldof and Midge Ure if you ask me. And don’t get me started on WaterAid. Three quid will supply a family for a month? We should all move there. It sounds a bloody sight cheaper than my bills from Severn Trent.

Putting my doubts aside, I’m off to try a new restaurant in town which promises ‘A true taste of Africa’. Better watch what I say though, or I’ll end up in the pot, hahaha! No, seriously, I am a bit worried.

Like the broad-minded chap that I am, I begin by trying to engage the waiter in conversation. ‘Whereabouts in Africa are you from?’ I ask. ‘Smethwick’ he replies, with a look that could cut me to the bone. Which, given my earlier concerns, is even more disconcerting.

I quickly change the subject by ordering a starter and opt for egusi soup, a West African speciality, apparently. With melon seeds in it. Melon seeds. In soup. The world’s gone mad.

It’s accompanied by injera bread, a spongy sourdough affair. It’s rank. No wonder they all look starving on the telly. I’d rather go hungry myself, who can blame them?

There’s a bewildering array of mains, consider it’s a continent with bugger all to eat. The bunny chow is, surprisingly, not a rabbit dish, but a hollowed-out half loaf of bread filled with curry. No thanks, I can get that from the half-time food vendors at the Villa.

There’s also biltong, cured, dried meat from South Africa. Utterly pointless in a world where there are Peperamis in every supermarket. That comes with chakalaka, which sounds like a 1970s disco group, but is actually a spicy vegetable relish. I skip those as well.

Things don’t improve. There’s bobotie, a hideous-sounding concoction of minced meat, dried fruit, eggs and milk. It’s like they’ve got in from the pub and just thrown everything in the fridge in a saucepan. I’ve done the same myself after a skinful, but it didn’t cross my mind to set up a restaurant serving it.

I’m too scared to even ask about the Zulu chicken, so, running out of options, I go for the jollof. Rice, vegetables and meat. What’s the worst that can happen?

I soon find out when it arrives and is spicy as f**k. The menu says it’s a ‘symbol of unity and cultural identity’. If your idea of unity is all having the shits at the same time I guess it’s true.

I brave a dessert and go for the number one speciality, malva. It’s a baked sponge with apricot jam and cold custard. Palatable enough, but no sticky toffee pudding substitute.

Keeping my smile firmly fixed for fear of reprisals, I duly pay the bill and leave. Would I go back. You’re taking the piss, aren’t you? I’ve eaten, after a fashion, and made it through the door without becoming tomorrow’s chef’s special. I’m taking that as a win.