The Archbishop of Canterbury on… the Chelsea FC shitstorm

TAKING a moment before choral evensong, I learn that Roman Abramovich’s assets have been frozen, throwing Chelsea FC into turmoil, unable to sell match tickets or merchandise, their future uncertain.

Haha fucking ha! I tell you, this is the first fucking belly laugh I’ve had since this fucking shitstorm broke! I rolled round the fucking chancel of Westminster Abbey in a pool of my own piss when I heard this. Chelsea! Oh, my fucking scrotum! Tell who I feel for, mind – all those fucking Chelsea fans who chanted ‘Roman Abramovich’ during the pre-match tribute to Ukraine the other fucking week. I bet they must be absolutely fucking devastated. Is there nothing we can do for them? Well, yes. They are in dire need of handkerchieves. Send them your fucking used handkerchieves, snot-, shit- or wank-stained, for them to rub their fucking red faces with. Chelsea! Couldn’t have happened to a nicer bunch of cunts!

There has been talk that Tony Blair might be called in to help out the Labour Party in an advisory capacity.

You are shitting me, right? I mean, shitting and fucking pissing me simultaneously, yeah? That boggle-eyed streak of fucking goat toss? As we see time and again, the British people are a bunch of colossally stupid cunts but polls show even they fucking realise what a ruinous waste of space this fucking warmongering wanker is. Even fucking Putin’s embarrassed at all those photos of him posing alongside Blair back in 1999. He’d no idea what a fucking disastrous arsehole you’d turn out to be on the fucking world stage! We know what your fucking advice would be – pretend it’s still fucking 1997! Well, fuck that, fuck you and fuck off to find some fucking dictator to shill for, you loathsome cunt!

It seems that Sam Ryder has been selected to represent the UK in the forthcoming Eurovision Song Contest, having made quite the impression on TikTok.

Fuck me bandy, have you seen the fucking state of this fucking fucker? He looks like a fucking fugitive from a Finnish forest commune circa 1971! There’s no excuse for beards that length at the best of times – I’d issue fucking on-the-spot fines if it was up to me – and these are the worst of fucking times and this is the worst of fucking beards! As for the fucking histrionic, paint-stripping fucking yelping you call ‘singing’, I’ve heard better emanating from a fucking seal with a penguin lodged up its fucking arse! Fuck off back to the internet, you copper-bottomed cunt!

Finally, Priti Patel has come under criticism for her sluggishness in allowing Ukrainian refugees into the UK.

Well, there’s a big fucking surprise. Priti fucking Patel, the Creature from the Planet Cunt, a woman who’d wouldn’t let her own fucking parents back into the country if they left it for a fucking weekend in Calais! ‘You should have thought of that when you left these shores, mother, father. Why didn’t you holiday in Skegness like true patriots?’ A thick, nasty, incompetent, unfit, smirking, twisted, sadistic lump of turd toxins who probably couldn’t find her way out of a fucking cabinet with the fucking instructions written on the inside door! It’s fucking incorrectness about everything gone fucking mad!

The text arrived as Zelensky was speaking. 'Yeah. You fucked the wrong comedy national leader'

From the diary of Carrie Johnson, Britain’s First Lady

ASK any woman; we like a man who can make us laugh. Ask any man; women like a guy who’s rich and powerful. I thought I had both. How wrong I fucking was.

I wasn’t in the Commons, because apparently I’m not officially part of this government. But watching Zelensky on BBC Parliament, I had two thoughts: first, where’s my vibrator? Second, Big Dog is going to go fucking spare.

Thankfully I’d got the first out of the way before he crashed upstairs in a rage. ‘Who does that prick think he is, quoting Churchill in front of me? He’s not Churchill. I’m bloody Churchill!’

I poured him a Shiraz from the wine box – we’re avoiding bottles because the Mirror’s been caught going through the recycling – and tried to mollify him, but he was in full flow.

‘Playing a piano with his dick? That’s a fucking variety act. I was hilarious on Have I Got News For You and it was wit! British wit! What’s he got that I haven’t, apart from khaki T-shirts and a war?’

At which point I was very careful not to glance at my phone, where my friend Nimco’s text about fucking the wrong leader was followed by a back-and-forth answering exactly that question. Younger, better-looking, and bravery under fire were the key points.

Thankfully he didn’t notice, kicking over an occasional table and waking up the baby instead. By the time I got back his anger was focused on the wine box. He’d never encountered one before and had no idea how to make it work.

Another glass and he calmed down. A third glass and it was his arm around my shoulders and commiserating with poor Zelensky in his bunker.

‘I know how he feels,’ he said. ‘You get elected. You think it’ll be a laugh. Then some bollocks virus or dictator goes and makes it a shitload of hard work.’

‘To Zelensky!’ he toasted. ‘To Zelensky!’ I joined in, for very different reasons. He’ll never know.