The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that set of teeth in an arsehole known as Sir Richard Branson

WAKING dressed in naught but a simple loincloth, hanging from a large crucifix, stared at by horrified schoolchildren, I recall the events that led to my present pass. 

Invited to open the annual Easter Egg Hunt on the grounds of St. Damian’s prep school on a fine day, I imbibed copious liquid refreshment. On facing the children, my mood unaccountably darkened.

Scowling at the infant throng, I spat: ‘You… you ingrates! Easter eggs? Christ, your Lord and Master, died for Easter eggs? Suffered torments on the cross so that you could have Easter eggs?’

To demonstrate Christ’s suffering, I commanded two of my accompanying clerics to tear down a large, wooden cross from the school’s entrance and, having stripped to my undergarments, bade them to tether me to it. After which I suppose I must have dozed off.

Coming to, I mutter ‘I declare the Easter Egg Hunt open,’ am released from my bonds and return to my chambers where I read that Nigel Lawson, former chancellor under Margaret Thatcher and father of Nigella Lawson, has died aged 91.

Sear my scrotum with an electric cattleprod, they’re gonna have to build quite the fucking dancefloor on that awful cunt’s grave to supply public demand! Spent his working life fucking over the country and his retirement fucking over the planet with his climate change denial! I’d say he’s going straight to Hell except I doubt Satan would let him through the gate because he doesn’t want the underworld being governed straight to shit! And what’s with saddling his daughter with basically his own fucking name in a dress? It’s like Adolf Hitler having a daughter and calling her Adolfa just to fuck with us all decades after he was gone! Arsehole!

It seems that Frank Lampard, manager of Chelsea until he was dismissed following a lamentable run of form, is the new caretaker manager of Chelsea.

Fuck me, outside of the fucking Tories, Chelsea are the biggest bunch of moneywasting basket cases in the UK! Lampard? It’s like Rishi Sunak carking it and Liz Truss being appointed caretaker PM! How many managers is that in the last eight years? 47? Why not go the Have I Got News For You route and appoint a guest manager on a week-by-week basis, if they can last that long without being sacked! Get in Jo Brand as manager one week, I mean, what the fuck?

One Andrew Orlowski has written in the Telegraph about ‘How idleness at work became an epidemic that is wrecking Britain’, complaining that the modern British workplace is ‘a hive of inactivity and low productivity’.

Jesus cockstick, I guess I’m not one to talk given that I only work one fucking morning a week, but at least I don’t deliver sermons about what lazy twats the British are before going back to bed for the day! Of all the people the overworked, cash-strapped, miserable super-stressed British public are gonna take lectures from about productivity, the very last one is a fucking journalist! What did you do after you’d ‘produced’ this column the way a bear produces a turd in the woods? Fuck off down the pub? Ranting about the lack of staff, what with young people being too unmotivated to pour beer down your neck six hours straight for fucking minimum wage? Better for us all if cunts like you reduced your productivity to fucking zero!

Finally, the satellite launch service Virgin Orbit, co-owned by Richard Branson, has filed for bankruptcy in the same week that internet provider Virgin Media suffered major countrywide outages.

Another triumph in the career of that illustrious knight of the realm, Sir Useless of Cunt! When are people finally gonna realise that releasing albums by 70s hippies with 20 minute bassoon solos is the limit of this fucker’s talent? Everything else he’s turned his hand to ultimately fucks up and crashlands in the vast deserts of his fucking incompetence! Shit vodka, shit cola, shit balloons, shit internet, shit planes, shit everything! Attaching ‘Virgin’ to the name of any fucking enterprise is as good an idea as an 18-year-old scrawling ‘VIRGIN’ on his forehead before heading out for the fucking sixth-form disco!

This white grooming gang is awfully inconvenient. We must disregard it

By Abigail Pennson, our reasonable, plain-speaking middle-class columnist who knows full well that barges sink

THE BBC reported it with chortling glee. The slave-owning Guardian was delighted. But for Rishi’s sake, and for Britain’s, this white grooming gang must be ignored. 

The timing is very suspicious. 21 people convicted in the West Midlands and every man jack of them white as snow, just when it would hurt the Tories most.

Who’s in on this conspiracy? The corrupt police? The liberal elite judges who tried to destroy Brexit? Former prosecutor of the blameless public Sir Keir?

It cannot be coincidence. The very week the government defies the liberal consensus and tells the unvarnished truth – to quote the blessed Suella, that ‘certain ethnic groups hold cultural values totally at odds with British values’ – these foul criminals appear.

What about the real victims in all this, the white working class? Bamboozled by inflation, by house prices, by the rivers of effluent running past their homes into thinking the government doesn’t represent them.

Finally thrown a lifeline and given something their stunted, fevered brains can comprehend like ‘Asian men bad’, they were obediently lining up to vote Tory. Before this slap in the face from so-called reality.

When confronted by evidence like this, hard facts which challenge every prejudice we hold dear, we have a choice. And for me it is no choice at all.

The facts are irrelevant. Only my prejudice – and yours, and your neighbours, and every right-thinking person in the country who believes what they hear down the pub – is true.

So cast this gang from your minds and from your internet history. Why let these people from Walsall and Wolverhampton, places that barely exist let alone matter, blunt the only tool that’s drawing Labour blood?

Do we want tawdry, unpleasant truth? Or do we want a resounding Tory victory? I speak for the sensible of all sensibilities when I say: the latter.