The Archbishop of Canterbury on... why actors get scripts instead of talking their own shite

22nd November 2024

WAKING up with a hangover so malignant it has caused me to grow a third testicle, I switch on the wireless and learn that John Prescott has died.

I did not always see eye to eye with the fellow but he was certainly combative. I recall a ‘meet and greet’ for members of the clergy, representatives of different faiths and Members of Parliament at 10 Downing Street. I had been imbibing since noon and was in a spirited frame of mind.

‘Hey! Prescott!’ I shouted at him across the room. ‘You’re a fucking fig leaf for a fucking Tory-lite government! Just because you talk like you’ve never eaten anything but Hovis doesn’t mean you’re left-wing, you fat fuck!’

Upon which I pelted him with three eggs, causing him to stride over and punch me in the face. I punched him back and within seconds we were wrestling furiously on the carpet in a bruising bout of grip and grapple. After 20 minutes we hauled ourselves upright and agreed to call it a draw, upon which we repaired to the bar and drank 40 pints of lager each.

Musing fondly on that happy memory, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that rock star Morrissey has opined: ‘As you know, nobody will release my music any more. As you know, because I’m a chief exponent of free speech. It’s now criminalised. You cannot speak freely in England. Express an opinion, you’ll be sent to prison.’

Holy fucking rocking horse shit, you have absolutely fucking lost it, haven’t you? You’re probably in some replica Salford you no doubt created for yourself in LA, surrounded by a circle of nodding dogs who only get to be in your proximity if they fucking agree with every turd that emerges from your mouth like fucking sausage links. Express an opinion, certainly the fucking ones you’ve got in mind, and you don’t end up in prison, you end up in the Express on Sunday with your own column and a six-figure fucking salary!

With the impending departure of Gary Lineker from Match Of The Day, among those touted as his successor are the football presenter Mark Chapman.

No, no, fucking no! Fuck that right over there and all the way back! Match Of The Day is a snorefest as it is, watching Alan fucking Shearer dissect a fucking 0-0 draw between Fulham and fucking Everton, but Chapman? He’ll like some boring next door neighbour, prating at you over the garden fence about his recent trip to fucking B&Q! I’d rather have fucking Peter Sutcliffe present it! Or Jeffrey Dahmer! They never caught the Zodiac Killer, did they? Anyone but that droning slab of grade-A fucking dull!

An interview has emerged this week of actress Rebecca Hall reminiscing about her marriage to actor Morgan Spector in 2015. She decided against a planned ceremony and urged guests to act in wacky and spontaneous ways on the wedding day, recounting it thus: ‘One friend, Rob Roth, leapt out of the shrubbery dressed as a werewolf and sang “And if a double decker bus/ Crashes into us.” Another, the actor Dan Stevens, called everybody out to the pond as a blood moon was rising and gave them a candle to hold.’

Holy fucking rat’s cunt, I just vomited up my fucking sphincter reading that! There is nothing, nothing worse in this world than theatre folk gathering in numbers of more than fucking three! This, this right here, is why they give actors scripts. Make them rehearse words, perform deeds as laid out by someone else. Because left to being spontaneous, this is the sort of criminally whimsical, ultra-wankerish, vacuously exhibitionist shite they fucking come out with! I know where I’d have shoved my fucking candle!

Finally, Jeremy Clarkson has been leading the protests by farmers against Labour plans to impose inheritance taxes. Andrew Lloyd-Webber was also at the demonstration.

You stupid, stupid pair of utter cuntwipes! Do you seriously think the general public are gonna be up in arms that richer-than-Nazis, land-grabbing, tax-evading fucking parasites like you are gonna have to chip in towards Britain’s fucking infrastructure? Do you actually think you’re so loved we’d say: ‘We beg of you, give these multi-millionaires a break! The joy they bring with the Sunday newspaper column Jeremy pulls out of his arse and the musicals Andrew composes on a fucking kid’s xylophone alone should make them exempt from tax!’ Oh just shut the fuck up and pay your taxes the way the rest of us have to, you squealing, porcine fucks!

A white home counties roadman swags da role of hanti-bullying hambassador

21st November 2024

Fifteen-year-old Active J, known in his detached home as Joshua Hudson, has been given an important responsibility during anti-bullying week.

WAGWAN? At ease, fam. You is in safe hands. It was hanti-bullyin’ week last week and school recognised Active J’s bossness by awarding man to be da hanti-bullyin’ hambassador for man’s year. Gassed! Gassed! Gassed!

Miss Jackson woz da hanti-bullyin’ queen an’ honoured Active J wiv a badge of hauthority in hassembly, in a ceremony in front of da schooldem. Miss sed Hambassador J ‘ad to set a bare peng hexample to all da studentdem, not just be a righteous bruv, like Active J to mandem crew, innit.

Miss sed Hambassador J had to check manself, coz happarently banter can be bullyin’ too, fam. Just coz man finks Drilla is a dickhead does not mean man should say so all da time. An’ heven though him’s head is shaped like a dick, tellin’ him would be discrimination bullyin’, innit.

Coz, fam, Hambassador J ‘as learned bullyin’ takes all shapes an’ forms. It’s not just da violence, it can be makin’ a bruv feel low coz him’s not goin’ skiing dis winter. Or there’s da passive-haggressive bullyin’ ting: if a brand muggle finks him’s swag coz him’s wearin’ turkey trainers, it’s bullyin’ to make fun of him’s drip, heven though him knows him’s a wasteman.

Man woz given da bare responsibility to hinform Miss Jackson if Hambassador J saw any bullyin’. Fam, it woz heverywhere: in da lessons, in da corridors, hespecially in da bogs. Hambassador J sent 37 pupildem to line up houtside Miss Jackson’s room. And a dinna lady too, coz her gave man kale wiv him’s venison. Rank, bruv. Dat lady went straight to da top of man’s list.

By da end of da dinna break Hambassador J ‘ad been busy harrestin’ bullies, an’ woz gaggin’ for a chug, but man ‘ad forgot him’s Cherry Bakewell fruity pie vape. So man hasked a crew bruv on da hastroturf for a chug, but him’s sed no way, coz man woz da feds now. Wot? Is you for real, bruv?

Hambassador J woz pure vexed an’ sed man woz still Active J – bossman roadman. Den him blew da vape fume into man’s face, which woz a well peng Mint Choc Chip flavour, but made man turbo-raged, innit. So man took off him’s badge an’ bare threw hands at da deadman. Den da year heleven Hambassador pulled man off an’ reported Active J for bullyin’.

Miss Jackson woz not peng wiv man in so many shouty ways, fam. Man thought Miss woz a little bit bullyin’, but man did not report her to her’s-self, coz Active J woz not to be Hambassador J hever, hever hagain.