The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Taylor Swift: easier to wank over than the Chemical Brothers

18th October 2024

WAKING up with a perfectly clear head, I take a light breakfast, attend to my correspondence and then take morning worship, addressing the theme of the Impiety in the Modern Age without a single use of the word ‘fuck’.

Next I have an informal conversation over tea and biscuits with parishioners, before attending to further ecclesiastical matters, including an inspection of the restoration of one of the abbey’s stained glass windows. I use a short break in my schedule for 20 minutes of prayerful contemplation.

I am interrupted by BBC journalist Justin Webb. I should have mentioned he and a camera team were following me around for a live ‘fly on the wall’ documentary for BBC2.

‘Excuse me, Your Grace,’ he says. ‘But I am surprised at your behaviour. I had been given to understand that you were one of the church’s more, er, colourful characters. Why – why are you behaving like this?’

I peer at him penetratively. ‘Because I’m the fucking Archbishop of Canterbury, that’s why, you stupid fucking cunt.’ I proceed to explain that I am temporarily moderating my behaviour because I am not a shit-for-brains fucking rectum, unlike this fucker Webb, and I don’t need the fucking grief of being in the tabloids yet a-fucking-gain.

As a director cries ‘CUT’, I return to my chambers to take a second light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Conservative leadership hopeful Kemi Badenoch has said in a pamphlet that autistic people have ‘economic privileges and protections’ and that schools, society and employers have to ‘work around them’.

Christ’s dead hamster on a fucking stick, you fucking what? You think autistic kids have hit some sort of fucking jackpot? And they just need to pull their fucking socks up? Are you grossly malignant or just plain fucking thick? I mean, seriously, how the fuck did you get a job in McDonald’s without deep-frying the McFlurries? And how did you rise like an especially dense turd to the top of the shit swamp that is the fucking Tory party? Seriously, if I were a Tory, I’d be looking at you like a dinosaur glancing up at an incoming fucking meteor!

Taylor Swift has dominated the news headlines this week due to one of her gigs being a Keir Starmer ‘freebie’, requiring the use of numerous pictures of her.

Taylor Swift, Taylor Swift, Taylor fucking Swift. Taylor fucking fucking fucking Swift. And in other news: Taylor Swift. There’s about a million more important things than Taylor Swift happening right now so for fuck’s sake, journalists, take your hands out of your fucking trousers and fucking write about them! Turns out one of Rachel Reeves’ aides has accepted gig tickets from big companies, but I doubt we’ll be hearing as much about that because you can’t wank over the Chemical Brothers!

Thomas Tuchel has been appointed manager of the England men’s football team. The Daily Mail, noting that Tuchel is German, have described his appointment as a ‘dark day for England’.

Hahaha, you pop-eyed, red-nosed bunch of fucking xenophobic hooter monkeys! I’ll tell you what was a dark day for fucking England, it was when you cunts were shrieking ‘Hurrah For The Blackshirts’ back in the fucking 1930s! No one buys this tabloid shitkicking any more, you fucking bigoted fossils! It was old hat in 1966, let alone 2024! The only reason anyone takes the fucking Daily Mail is for an unending montage of fat-shamed and ogled-at celebrity women, not to relive hating the damn Jerries! Mind you, Tuchel is as mad as a vat of frogs slowly reaching boiling point, so strap yourself in for a fucking fun ride, everyone!

Finally, health secretary Wes Streeting has suggested obese people could receive weight loss jabs to make them productive members of the workforce, despite experts warning the injections could cause side-effects.

I knew this Labour government would be several brown shades of shit but I never knew they’d be this fucking weird! Fat jabs? Is this your fucking payback to all those Big Pharma companies that have been fucking bankrolling you, Wes? I’m sure the fat skivers will be more productive once the drugs have made them sprout extra limbs, but fuck me bandy, Streeting, have you not considered, I dunno, helping them afford decent food? Or does that sound too much like the sort of thing a Labour government would do for your fucking liking?

How to be the coolest motherf**king octogenarian in any garden centre. By Al Pacino

17th October 2024

WANNA know how to walk into any garden centre from Minshull’s in Crewe to Coopers of Bishop Stortford and f**king own the goddam place? Learn from a Hollywood legend like me.

Reverse park your Caddy

First you gotta reverse park your vintage 1959 Cadillac Coupe de Ville outside the joint like a don. Flash that blue badge so everyone knows you had hip replacement surgery in the 90s and they’ll step the f**k off. Unless they want a knuckle sandwich from big Alfredo P.

If the garden centre has valet parking, slip the young guys there a twenty to keep an eye on your wheels. They know it’s Al Pacino because I wear a full tux and carry my Academy Award for Scent of a Woman with me. You should do the same. I hate how everyone who visits a garden centre dresses like a beatnik.

Push that trolly like you stole it

When I worked on Heat, I learned some pursuit driving techniques for the car chase. So I put those skills to good use when I’m browsing the creosote and fence panels. You need fast reflexes to do a handbrake turn in a trolley piled high with tulip bulbs, four bags of topsoil and a £15.99 ceramic hedgehog. That spiky little sucker is gonna be one helluva a conversation starter. ‘Say hello to my leetle friend,’ I’ll say, hilariously.

Don’t be afraid to name-drop

I never forget my friends, so I’ll pick up some pet-friendly weedkiller for Diane Keaton. Or I might ask the assistant if they have a cold frame that would be suitable for Robert Duvall.

Make out with ladies working in the cafe

My visits can last up eight hours. What can I say, I still got that stamina. But I like to stop for a black coffee at the cafe and I use some of my killer lines on the Dorises behind the counter. As they’re serving me a scotch egg or cheese and onion quiche I’ll say: ‘You don’t have to watch your waistline, honey, because I’m watching it for you.’ Ladies eat that shit up.

If I stop at the florist’s, I’ll buy the biggest bouquet they have and then simply say ‘These are for you, sugar’ and hand them back. Then I put on my sunglasses and walk off. It’s sexual dynamite. It sure worked with Yvonne from the Dobbies in Carlisle. If you’re reading this, call me, baby.

Donate generously

As you exit the garden centre, all eyes are still on you. You’ve just spent a fortune on seeds, a new trowel and a freestanding water fountain featuring a full family of ducks. So you gotta pay something back to the neighbourhood. I drop a grand into the old plastic RSPCA donation spaniel they have near the automatic doors. The first few times I stuffed notes in, but now I make sure I have a thousand bucks in change to slowly and deliberately post into that sucker. Takes about an hour. Then I just jump back in the Caddy and jet back to Hollywood. The garden centre ain’t never gonna be the same again. You dig?