The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Suella, strangely thick about where all the f**king foreigners come from

3rd January 2025

WAKING with a hangover so intense my brain is making an audible analogue noise similar to the stylings of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, I begin my New Year’s resolution: to observe Dry January.

Well, more specifically, Dry January 1st. Dry until 9am. Last year I capitulated at 8.53am. This year, I had resolved to add seven minutes to that record.

It is a monumental struggle. Fearing that my own willpower may not be sufficient, I resort, for the first time in my life, to the power of prayer. Maybe there is something in it?

And so, uttering an improvised supplication, I soldier on. 8.53. 8.55. By now, I am banging my forehead hard against my wardrobe. 8.57. I have opened my windows and am bellowing obscene imprecations as I writhe in torment. 8.59 and 30 seconds – 40 – 55, 56, 57, 58, 59 – I make it!

I rip open a bottle of rum with my teeth and glug half of it in a single draught. Was this the power of prayer? I admit to a chink of uncertainty. How else to account for this miracle of abstinence?

Still pondering, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Suella Braverman has claimed a wall has been built between Italy and Turkey to curb illegal immigration, one which she has seen. Experts have pointed out that the countries are actually hundreds of miles apart.

Fuck me with my dead dog’s cock, how fucking dense and oblivious to basic fucking sentience would you have to be to say something this stupid and not immediately dig a 40-foot hole in your garden and throw yourself in until the end of fucking time? Although I guess Braverman has been exposed as a lying, copper-bottomed moron so many times it’s par for the course. Any normal human being would retire and live as a garden gnome in the suburbs after something like this. She’d probably scare off cats planning to shit in your garden, unless they’re fucking immigration obsessives!

Donald Trump has blamed the recent terror attack in New Orleans on illegal migration, warning of ‘criminals coming in’. The perpetrator was a US citizen and army veteran.

Gee, Donald, I bet you’re fucking mortified, aren’t you? Caught out in a falsehood! Why, this could ruin your reputation – maybe even undo all your good work! But you don’t give one fuck, do you? Your mouth is just one gigantic orifice of torrential fucking effluent, a rising fucking tide of bullshit bearing you to the ultimate office! It’s hard to say who’s worse, you, for the unending fucking lies or your supporters, for wanting to be fed them. Actually it’s not. You’re worse, Donnie, because at least the MAGA fuckheads aren’t trying to sell the world’s worst fucking trainers!

Nick Clegg has stepped down from his role at Meta, aka Facebook, after almost seven years.

Nick Clegg. Sir Nick Clegg. Sir Nick Cunting Clegg. The ultimate, toxic, slimy fucking proof that you can never trust a liberal! Rises to fame as the fresh-faced embodiment of a fuckwit’s idea of political integrity, then sells his soul to a social media Satan when his political career tanks under the dead weight of his careerist pointlessness! Next stop, a podcast for gullible centrist fuckwits to tune into avidly! Him and Suella Braverman. Hands across the political divide. Alastair Campbell and Rory Stewart Mk II. Grown-ups in the room. Well you can take your ‘politer politics’ and stick it up your fucking arse. Twat!

Finally, the Gavin & Stacey Christmas finale garnered huge viewing figures for the BBC, with Nessa (Ruth Jones) and Smithy (James Corden) finally getting married.

Well, that was a double tits-up – utterly predictable and completely fucking implausible! I’ll give a golden six-by-three-foot crucifix to anyone who can explain to me why someone like Nessa would carry a fucking torch for a lump of lairy, 90s-facial-haired fuck like Neil, who is basically James Corden because the cunt can’t act. Seriously, he’s Jamie Oliver multiplied by Dave Lee Travis. Still, it sets them up nicely for a one-off special about them getting divorced. If it was realistic it should be on in a fucking fortnight!

Plant milk bollocks and food for bloody hamsters: The gammon food critic's New Year, New You diet

2nd January 2025

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic who is somehow convinced that Nigel Farage will be in Number 10 in 2025.

IF you ask me, New Year resolutions are just an excuse for the fun police to suck the enjoyment out of life. It’s like living in Nazi Germany, apart from the war, death camps and entirely different society.

It’s always the good stuff they want you to give up, like fags and booze, not colds or lettuce. But I’ve decided 2025 will be the year I pay more attention to my health. All things in moderation, I say, especially ones that are a pain in the arse to stick to. And just so it’s documented, here is my official Day One Diary.

I’ve decided right from the off I’m not giving up drinking, but I’m only going to drink in the pub. Except when I drink in the flat. However more time in the pub will be so bloody expensive I’ll practically be teetotal, I’m sure of it.

But now it’s time for breakfast. No bacon sarnie and tea with three sugars from the cafe over the road, something more ‘wholesome’. The health gestapo on the internet suggest muesli with ‘plant milk’.

Plant milk? What the f**k’s that about, apart from pandering to lefty vegans who think normal milk means you’re making a baby cow die from malnutrition? And how exactly do you milk a nut? I milk my nuts in front of Pornhub several times a week but that’s a different story.

I’ve got some semi-skimmed in the fridge, so I’m bending the rules slightly and going with that to pour over my ‘delicious, healthy muesli’. Which is indistinguishable from those bags of shit you feed pet rodents on. I quickly decide it’s not for me. But since nuts are good for you, I drink my milk to wash down a bag of KP Ready Salted. I’m feeling fitter already.

The Day One lunch suggestion is smashed avocados on wholemeal toast, so I snuck into a Tesco I don’t normally go to late on New Year’s Eve and bought a couple. Bit of a hassle but better than people thinking I’m gay.

And I’ve already learned something. Avocados taste like shit. Not literally, but it might as well be. I’ve slathered it in Tabasco to disguise it, but there’s no getting away from the disgusting texture. Like dining on a tin of concentrated magnolia emulsion. And there’s so much hot sauce I’m getting crippling sodding heartburn. I always said faddy diets are bad for you.

Dinner time and as you can imagine, I’m f**king starving. It’s poached chicken breast with boiled potatoes and green beans. I can’t get that in a tin, so I wisely planned ahead and bought a WeightWatchers chicken dinner for one.

But for one what, exactly? It’s so tiny it’s all but gone in two mouthfuls. Much more of this and Bob Geldof will have to do another Band Aid for me. I stick it out until 10pm, then cave in and order a pizza. Finally, sustenance.

Well, I tried at least. If nothing else it’s proved to me my body needs more fuel than that of woke, heart-healthy bores who, while they might live to be 100, will have spent the whole time shrouded in abject misery. And seeing as I’ve failed now, I reckon there’s just time to make it for last orders.