The Archbishop of Canterbury on... sorry, misery guts, 'King Charles' still makes me think of the spaniel

WAKING with a hangover that leaves me seeing quadruple for several minutes until I plunge my head into a bucket of ice cold water and vomit copiously from a bay window, I reflect on the harrowing experience I had tried to blot out with alcohol.

I was on a pastoral visit to Stevenage. I had been warned that this would be a grim experience but nothing had prepared me for the ghastliness of what I witnessed. That human beings should have to live like this drove me to make a public appeal.

‘Fellow citizens,’ I said to the camera. ‘I have seen sights of human misery that have shaken me to the core. Just 20 or so miles from London, atrocious sights. Dismal, concrete shopping precincts, cafes shuttered up at six in the evening. One-way systems to nowhere. Flat-roofed public houses. Underpasses stinking of piss. A town whose main civic attraction is its loading bays. Not to put too fine a point on it, a shithole. 

‘I beg of you, give what you can to the wretched people of Stevenage. Photos of infinitely nicer parts of England. Not just food parcels but kegs of beer, whisky, crack, heroin, whatever might brighten their appalling Stevenage-based lives. One happy day, Stevenage will be bulldozed to the ground and converted into a landfill site but for now, please, give generously.’

Still in shock, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Donald Trump was shot in the ear in an assassination attempt. President Biden was among those who condemned ‘all forms of political violence’.

Fuck me with a dead Alsatian’s cock, you are fucking pissing me, right? When you’re shipping off arms to Israel to blow up another half-dozen fucking hospitals? ‘All forms of political violence’ my mottled fucking buttocks! As for Trump, spare me the fucking fake concern for that pelican-faced almost-as-senile-as-you fascist! Face it, you thought exactly the same as the fucking rest of us: better luck next time!

Prince Charles has been in the news again for getting somewhat tetchy with his page boys trying to adjust his ermine at the King’s Speech.

You truly are a miserable cunt, aren’t you? It’s bad enough these poor twats have to wear tights, but they have to put up with a horrible mass of moodiness and burst capillaries like you too! I wonder why you’re in such a fucking foul snit? Is it because you had to read out the bilge ‘your’ government is gonna inflict on us? Or is it that you’re having the most nondescript reign since fucking Ethelred, because you can’t talk about plants and architecture and shit? Or is it that no one takes you seriously? Face it, when anyone says ‘King Charles’ the first thing you think of is a fucking spaniel. Or maybe the one who got decapitated. They certainly don’t fucking think of you!

Wes Streeting has announced a ban on puberty blockers for trans children, though not for cis ones. Labour will also have a meeting with children’s author JK Rowling to discuss her concerns about trans issues.

Fuck’s sake, you slimy big-faced twat, not content with selling off the fucking NHS, you sign off the most bigoted ruling since the gay-hating depths of the fucking Thatcher years! Who the fuck are you to make decisions like this against medical advice? What’s your degree in? A first in Cuntology, as far as I can make out! And what special insight does fucking JK Rowling have into fucking trans matters except calling them sex offenders on Twitter? Any other medical issues you’re gonna be running by her while you’re there? Maybe don’t treat trans people’s broken ankles in case they turn the doctors and nurses transgender too? Shame Bernard Manning isn’t alive, you could invite him along to discuss his concerns about racial equality. 

Finally, England failed to overcome Spain in the finals of Euro 2024. After the match, TV host Gary Lineker turned to a Spanish member of the panel and asked him, wistfully, ‘What’s it like to win a tournament?’

Oh you jug-eared fucking milquetoast, we know what it’s like to win an international footballing tournament because we fucking won one two years ago! Remember? The fucking women? Don’t tell me you of all people don’t know what women are! And I daresay they’ll fucking do it again before England’s men win anything, and again and again over the coming decades, while we continue to pick lumbering planks of uselessness upfront like Harry fucking Kane!

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The Reform Revolution is building a new Britain. Labour are irrelevant

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who saw that bullet bounce off Trump’s impregnable skin with her own eyes

DID you stay up for it? For the coronation? The moment the people of Clacton, Britain’s bellwether, elected our next prime minister? 

Did you see him at the opening of Parliament? A day that was meant to belong to Starmer before he was upstaged by Reform’s Fab Five sparking mania not seen since the Beatles? 

The King’s Speech? Sound and fury signifying nothing. Even Charlie, mouthing Labour’s platitudes, had his eyes fixed on the real winner of July’s election: Nigel Paul Farage. 

He could have demolished Starmer’s acres of verbiage in a few well-chosen words. He didn’t, because he had to cross the Atlantic to sit at Trump’s right hand, but he could have. 

Labour government? There is no Labour government. Oh, they’ll do what damage they can to the fabric of our great nation while they’re in. They know it’s temporary, but a bridge between the last Tory era and the coming Reform Revolution. 

As a moral force they will dominate Parliament. No law or budget will pass without Nigel’s verdict and his verdict is final. Like a judgement from God he shall brand every effort to drag this nation beneath waves of woke a failure, and so it shall come to pass. 

We have perhaps a year, perhaps less, for Suella to persuade the Conservatives to accept Nigel’s leadership or choose to die. Because the groundswell for Reform will be unignorable. 

Within 18 months Labour will be forced to admit they cannot govern. That every seat in the country, whether blue, red or a contemptible yellow, has been turned by a turquoise tsunami. 

It’s their decision whether they hold an election or skip the formalities and install Nigel in Downing Street where he’s long belonged. I personally wouldn’t bother. Elections are relics when a nation is in enthusiastic, tumultuous agreement. 

Reform won. The rest is a technicality. Prepare your children for glory.