The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Tate, very much Trump's kind of evil twat

28th February 2025

WAKING up with a hangover almost, if not quite, the size of Rotterdam, I vomit in an elegant plume and reflect on my contribution to the betterment of mankind this week.

I feel that with the election of Mr Trump and the rise of the far-right and dubious billionaires, the world is in danger of losing its moral compass. I therefore devised, for immediate dissemination across the kingdom, a series of exhortations which can be reduced to easy-to-remember acronyms. They are as follows.

BFK – Be Fucking Kind

PYTYGT – Pay Your Taxes You Greedy Twats

GNFUSIUTU – God’s No Fucking Use So It’s Up To Us!

DBACTPATWBACBTY – Don’t Be A Cunt To People And They Won’t Be A Cunt Back To You!

MSHWHAGHWI: Men, Stop Harassing Women, Have A Good Hard Wank Instead!

FEMWTROEOABFCL – Fuck Elon Musk With The Ripped Off End Of A Broken Fucking Chair Leg!

It is my conviction that if humanity were to observe these tenets then peace and reason could be restored to their respective thrones.

Satisfied that I have done my bit, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that home secretary Yvette Cooper has blamed a rise in crime in certain areas on a lack of police.

Fuck a tethered goat, you think? So a bunch of ne’er-do-wells in hooped jerseys with bags marked ‘SWAG’ are running amok because there are no coppers to foil their capers? It’s definitely nothing to do with a rise in poverty leading to depressing stats like more thefts of Calpol so mothers can medicate their fucking kids? I wonder just what is the point of you chocolate fucking teapots going under the name of Labour if you don’t intend to do anything except ride around in ministerial cars! Still, you can always do a ‘clampdown’ on these criminal masterminds living it up with their stolen bread and formula milk!

Political activist Darren Grimes has posted a black and white photo of neighbourly white folk in bygone times on Twitter. ‘Back then, we didn’t have much. Life was hard, work was dangerous and times were tough. But my God at least we had each other – the country was united. In my lifetime that has been thoroughly lost,’ he opined. Grimes was born in 1993.

Fuck, man, you’re fucking 31! When was ‘back then’? Some distant historical year like 2012? You can bet he means ‘before the recent rise in immigration’. Because let’s face it, this is all about fucking immigration, isn’t it? Ah yes, 2012, when tousle-haired kids played with hoops in the back alleys while mother scrubbed the doorstep and father was returning cheerfully from a 14-hour shift at the mine, thirsty for a mug of tea and a supper of bread and dripping! I fucking remember it well! Get to fuck you rancid little twat!

In an article in the Jewish Chronicle, Melanie Phillips has argued: ‘If you support the Palestinian cause in any form, you’re facilitating Jew hate.’

What can we say, Mel? There’s the cannon, there’s the fucking sea, there’s the self-firing mechanism. You know what to do. Yes, it’s Phillips’ entire bullshit argument in a nutshell: any opinion except ‘Israel is right’ is antisemitic. To be honest it’s par for the fucking course for ‘Mad Mel’, the mystery is why she’s still employed by the BBC rather than wandering around precincts barking randomly at fucking strangers!

Finally, thanks to his travel ban being suspended, Andrew Tate has arrived in Florida from Romania, where he faces trial on charges of rape, sex with a minor, people trafficking and money laundering.

Yeah, and he’ll be returning to Romania for the trial, like the good little boy he is, no doubt about that! It’s obvious which orange monstrosity is connected to this, with his habit of liberating right-wing nutcases and elevating the world’s fucking Batman villains! Maybe Tate can be secretary of state for women’s affairs? Seriously, Donald, I know your plan is to visit evil on the world because you were once roasted by Obama, but could you be a bit more fucking subtle about it? Less like a comic book villain I used to read about when I was fucking eight years old? The Emperor from Star Wars, with his black robe, hideously disfigured face and penchant for evil cackling, is more fucking nuanced!

The food's shit, but at least my clothes are in fashion: The gammon food critic's 70s retro party

27th February 2025

Restaurant reviews by Justin Tanner, our retired food critic, who thinks if Luis Rubiales had known he’d be getting all this shit he may as well have tried tongues.

I BLOODY loved the 1970s. I was in my prime, the music was brilliant, and we had entertainment like Carry On films and Love Thy Neighbour before the wokerati banned you from laughing at good-natured banter like ‘spear-chucker’.

The food was shit, mind you. There was fondue, which was like eating warm cheesy snot. Findus Crispy Pancakes, which left third degree burns in your mouth. And whoever invented ‘Green Goddess Dressing’ needed shooting. Bright green evaporated milk and anchovies? It looked like someone with a heavy head cold had sneezed on your salad.

But a couple in one of the neighbouring flats is holding a 70s-themed birthday party and it’d be rude not to go. And when I arrive 20 minutes early to get some free drinks in before the scrounging masses show up, they’re surprisingly pleased to see me.

‘It was good of you to get in the spirit,’ my hosts say. ‘How do you mean?’ I ask. ‘Coming in 70s fancy dress!’ Cheeky f**kers.

Wondering if it is maybe time to update my wardrobe, I head for the drinks table. Which is when I remember how godawful booze was back then. There’s Babycham for a start. Babyshite more like. Back in the 70s it was a ‘ladies’ drink’ so I don’t want to look like a raging poofter.

The cocktails aren’t much better. Tequila Sunrise, disgusting. Blue Lagoon, which looks and tastes like decongestant. I notice other guests are arriving now, so I move onto the buffet. When there’s free food it’s a case of ‘you snooze, you lose’.

It’s hardly The Ritz, mind you. For one, there’s pineapple bloody everywhere. On sticks with cheese, on pizzas where it has no right to be, and worst of all chicken and pineapple pie.

There’s the dreaded fondue and devilled eggs, which will have everyone pumping out more methane than a herd of Aberdeen Angus. I have to pinch myself to believe this was the decade that brought us sublime grub like Monster Munch and Yorkie bars.

Thank God there’s chicken in a basket. I grab a few pieces and a handful of chips before Miss La-Di-Da hostess curtly points out there are serving spoons. I don’t recall there being woke hygiene police in 1974. You ate a dodgy Wimpy Bender in a Bun, you died. End of.

Unfortunately I’m becoming increasingly aware through my drunken haze that there are quite a few people giving me funny looks, so decide to make a discreet exit.

I ask the hostess for my coat – yes, the one with the massive lapels – and if I can take a slice of the Black Forest Gateau away with me for later. She declines. Can’t think what I’ve done to offend them. Maybe it was all those classic Bernard Manning jokes.

Returning to the flat, I muse on whether the 70s were really as great as I remember them.

The answer is a resounding ‘yes’. Long, hot summers, Division One football that wasn’t full of overpaid foreigners, Farrah Fawcett’s tits. You could enjoy The Black and White Minstrel Show in peace and pinch a barmaid’s arse without people raising an eyebrow. A golden age indeed.