The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that grasping, duplicitous arsehole Matt Hancock

SEATED in the first class compartment of a train from London to Brighton, I snort, wonder when it will deign to set off, and take a restorative draught of whiskey.

Two hours later the train is still yet to depart and I resort to bourbon. Another four hours and I’m forced to poteen. Summoning a conductor, I demand an explanation for the delay and am told the train has been to Brighton and back three times while I was ‘blacked out’.

Decrying the growing mendacity of our public servants, I give up and return home where I peruse the periodicals and learn that Rishi Sunak has put down Keir Starmer by reminding him that he served in Jeremy Corbyn’s cabinet.

Jesus’s tattered wanksock on a staff, is that all you’ve fucking got, you half-mast trousered tit? Jeremy fucking Corbyn? No one outside of your bubble of Westminster pantswetters even remembers who he is! Beardy bloke who said he was going to nationalise sausages, oh yeah, him! You might as well bang on about fucking Arthur Scargill! Perhaps think about something less pointlessly fucking puerile like ‘My Dad can piss up further up a wall than your Dad’ because if all you can fling back is ‘Jeremy Corbyn’ then Suella Braverman will be in Downing Street by Christmas!

It seems that Matt Hancock is in Australia to appear on entertainment show I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here! His party has suspended the whip as a result.

You grossly self-overestimating little prick, of the name that launched a thousand fucking anagrams, appearing on this is a far greater offence in public office than sending thousands of people to their deaths during COVID. First, you’re no ‘celebrity’. No-one celebrates you. If the show’s name were I’m A Cunt… Get Me Out Of Here! you’d be a natural. Second, if you don’t think you’re going to be subsisting on cancerous kangaroo cock marinated in diseased wallaby piss on a nightly basis, you’re a deluded bellend. And that’s just the fucking caterers. You wait for the fucking challenges!

‘One In Six Of Us Born Overseas’, ran a Daily Mail headline this week.

Yeah? So? Beyond your core readership of 95-year-old fascists reading this in their retirement homes in fucking Spain, who fucking cares? You dicks get madder and madder with each passing edition. You’re about a fortnight away from running ‘BLOODY FOREIGNERS’ as a headline and exclusive fucking story. At least those one in six pay their fucking taxes here, unlike Viscount Rothermere, your non-dom tax-evading twat of an owner!

Finally, Home Office Minister Chris Philp has complained of the ‘cheek’ of migrants suffering in squalid conditions at such centres as Manston while waiting to be processed.

Just imagine. I bet they’ve got Netflix, Corby trouser presses, tea and coffee making facilities, the fucking lot. Laughing it up at the taxpayer’s expense. Though it’s not like we Brits haven’t done our fucking bit, eh? Waging wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to trigger a refugee crisis and this is the thanks we get? Soon enough, after your mates Liz and Kwasi’s epic bed-shitting, it’ll be Brits taking to their dinghies in search of a better life overseas and they’d better hope they’re treated a fuck sight better than we’re treating migrants! ‘Cheek’! That’s rich coming from a giant left arsecheek of a human being like you, Philp!

Suella Braverman speaks for those who want to see the Channel foaming with blood – that's why the elites despise her

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist slightly to the right of Hitler

AN English beach, the surf crimson. RAF gunships sinking distant boats. A one-way plane to Rwanda awaiting any survivors. Doesn’t it gladden the heart?

This is Suella Braverman’s vision. Fortress Britain. Invaders repelled by any means necessary. Machine-gun nests on Southend Pier. Low-level bombing runs on French beaches.

And yet for this, absurdly, she is pilloried by the left-wing elistist Islington media establishment despite having views shared by 99 per cent of British patriots.

When she said, in the Commons, ‘Britain is being invaded. Every man on every boat is a 15-stone Abanian mafioso who intends to turn Sussex into a brothel casino with free PCP for kids,’ I cheered.

Finally common sense. Finally a home secretary, unlike bleeding heart liberal Priti Patel, who understands the scale of the problem.

I looked forward to our next move. Mining the Channel? Sending the Prince of Wales up in an Apache attack helicopter to machine-gun boats until there’s nothing but fragments of plastic and chum for the sharks?

Empower vigilante squads of true-blue voters to summarily execute anyone sighted near their coastline, with full amnesty for any mistakes? Declare the RNLI illegal? Nuke Tirana?

But instead, what happens? Liberal death squads led by Robert Peston and Beth Rigby, jacked up on cocaine and Twitter, empty their metaphorical AK-47s into Braverman. That’s no exaggeration. They already have the severed heads of Boris and Liz on poles.

They accuse her of being racist, when one look at her proves she can’t be. They accuse her of using the wrong words, like that matters when a former Communist pimp has a knife to your throat and is forcing you to perform in his bestial peep-show.

Britain wants these people dead. If that means ending of movement of people or goods to the continent permanently to surround us with a 100ft laser-screen of death, Braverman will do it. That’s what they’re so afraid of.

So ignore the liberal chatter. The Channel will soon, as in Suella’s dreams, be foaming with blood. And we – the sensible, silent, ignored majority – will be the ones spilling it.