The Archbishop of Canterbury on... those flat-track bastards at the Sun

14th July 2023

WAKING up with a dry feeling in my mouth, as if having eaten a pair of corduroy trousers, I sweep aside the empty bottles atop my duvet and recall the events of the past few days.

Approached by the BBC to take part in a ‘reality’ documentary titled 48 Hours In The Life Of An Archbishop hosted by Fiona Bruce, I enthusiastically agreed to bring my Christian message to the public.

It was typical Sunday evening fare: a certain amount of imbibing, two arrests, a fistfight with a cow and a roisterous drinks reception which culminated in Lambeth Palace being burnt down.

However, I received notice from the Corporation that not only would the documentary not be broadcast, the master tape would be sealed in lead and buried 800 feet underground in an undisclosed location.

Moreover, Ms Bruce has been granted six months sabbatical leave on the grounds of nervous exhaustion. If you cannot take your liquor, Ms Bruce, do not pick fights with livestock, say I.

With a resigned ‘Que sera, sera,’ I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that the Sun newspaper revealed that a BBC broadcaster, later exposed as Huw Edwards, had inappropriate exchanges with a child, who turned out to be an adult, which could be grounds for criminal charges, though it turned out there were no grounds for criminal charges. Kelvin Mackenzie was among those invited to discuss the matter on the BBC.

Dip my arse in fucking ammonium, The Scum’s dropped both fucking bollocks with this one! The Sun, harbourer of sex pests, a bloke who killed his fucking wife and the newspaper that put topless 16 year old girls on page three for its fuckwitted lecherous readership to gawp at, a defender of public morals? I hope you get your fucking sweaty arses sued off, you bunch of life-ruining hypocrites! As for the BBC, what the fuck are you doing inviting that cunt Kelvin Mackenzie on to discuss tabloid ethics? That’s like inviting Harold Shipman on to discuss standards in care for the fucking elderly! Way to join in with your own fucking demolition, you weirdly self-loathing twats!

Novak Djokovic, just turned 35, has had another fine Wimbledon tournament and was considered the favourite from the outset.

Fuck you, Djokovic, you fucking science-denying, big-nosed piece of cunt! When they finally developed the vaccine I thought there’d be universal dancing in the streets but no, there’s always a bunch of conspiracist fucking clothheads with idiot alternatives to reality! Like we’re supposed to listen to someone who reckons ‘molecules in the water react to our emotions and speech’. What the fuck are on about, you fucking dingbat? I tell you, promoting your anti-vax drivel, using your worldwide platform to sway the gullible, you’ve been responsible for more deaths than if you’d taken a machine gun out of your bag and randomly strafed the crowd with bullets at the French Open final, you awful twat’s-game prick!

Lovers of art are invited to enjoy the immersive experience of Van Gogh’s art at London’s Commercial Street, in which visitors can feel as if they are inside the Dutchman’s artworks.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, spare me this bollocks! How old am I, eight? They’re fucking paintings! They’re meant to be fucking looked at! That’s what Van Gogh painted them for, to be fucking looked at! If I wanted an ‘immersive’ paint-based experience, I’d open a tin of Dulux and pour it over my head, you ridiculous cunts!

Finally, in the week criticisms have been levelled at the ‘alpha male’ culture of the House of Commons, Jacob Rees-Mogg said of the Privileges Committee report which concluded that Boris Johnson knowingly misled parliament that ‘this report is in danger of making the House of Commons look foolish’.

Christ’s Turin wanksock, I think that ship sailed the time you decided to treat the Tory front bench like a fucking hammock and took a snooze in the middle of a parliamentary session, you fucking fugitive from a Dennis The Menace cartoon! You are the very embodiment of why the House of Commons doesn’t just look foolish, it looks outright cuntish, you complacent, pseudo-classical, malignant, pig-ignorant shower of badger’s piss! Still, no one could accuse you of being a fucking alpha male! With your pigeon chest and pea-sized gonads, you’re kappa at fucking best!

All the sexiest scenes from Nadine Dorries's novel about Boris Johnson

13th July 2023

NADINE Dorries has put her pen to work writing a novel about the downfall of her friend, hero and erotic obsession Boris Johnson. These are the good bits:

P49:

‘In his hour of greatest need he had been abandoned. His girlfriend had turned away from him for no other reason than her late-stage pregnancy. The rest had been scared off by Covid.

‘He lay there in intensive care, hooked up to bleeping machines, profile still noble enough for a Roman coin. His lips moved. I leaned closer.

‘“Wank me,” he said, with barely strength to form the words. “Wank me off.” And I knew that I must do what my prime minister and Britain required of me.’

P143:

‘“They’re all against me,” he spat, correctly recognising that every MP, civil servant and journalist – who all went to the same public schools – knew what a threat this iconoclastic outsider was to their rule. “So I want you up against that wall.”

‘“What about Carrie?” I asked. “She only cares about wallpaper,” he said, contemptuously. “She knows nothing of a man’s needs. She is a mere broodmare. You are my true love, or I wouldn’t have such a massive stiffy.”

‘“What about Cummings?” I asked, preparing myself for his bombastic entry. “It’s okay,” he said, entering me in a single bold movement that rattled historic china in a nearby cabinet. “You’re well past the menopause so it’s fine.”’

P300:

‘“You will never restrain me,” roared Boris, magnificently nude, fully priapic, wrapped only in chains held by pygmies. “I am an electoral giant! I delivered a majority as stonking as this erection!”

‘But for every chain he broke, the small-minded grey men of politics, threw over another. “That’s why we’re so afraid of you,” squeaked Sunak. “Because you upset the applecart. Because you have a direct connection to the heart of the British people. Because you could rule for a hundred years.”

‘“Graaagh!” shouted the once and future king, flinging his disloyal ministers around the Commons in defiance. But it was too late. Their poisoners’ daggers had entered his heart. And I was powerless to help, as I was masturbating furiously.’

P348

‘He drew my hand to his lips. “I shall be back,” he said, tender even as I rode his bucking bulk like a rodeo cowboy. “And ere I leave I shall make you a lady. Lady Nadine of the Mersey Slums, the highest in all the land!” he promised as I climaxed.

‘That his vow could not be kept was not his fault. So, on his exiled behalf, I vowed the revenge of a writer gifted with the poetry of Shakespeare and the libido of Jilly Cooper. After publication, the whole political establishment would be on its knees in an alleyway sucking dick.

‘And not in a good way.’