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The Archbishop of Canterbury's review of the fucking year

WAKING with a head that feels like the site of bear defecation, my tongue the size of a pillow and my eyes awash with blood but otherwise chipper, I reflect on last week’s carol service. 

I am often amused by how our choristers change the words of certain carols to mirthful effect and, to lighten up the festive season, I prepared a series of alternative titles and verses to perform at this year’s service, broadcast live on BBC2.

These included ‘While Shepherds Washed Their Cocks By Night’ of course, but also ‘Silent Shite’, ‘Oh Spunk All Ye Faithful’, ‘Wank The Herald Angels Sing’ and ‘Oh Little Town Of Cuntingham.’

I understand the broadcast was pulled after a short time and replaced with a 45-minute medley of Tom and Jerry cartoons so in a very real sense I feel we did bring joy to the world. Post-breakfast, I sip a decaffeinated coffee and reflect that 2023 allowed Prince Charles to celebrate a year as King.

And what a pig’s arse the capillaried cunt made of it, eh? Tearing a new fucking hole in the ozone layer jetting around the world to lecture people on the fucking climate crisis, caught filching money from dead Lancastrians in some medieval scheme to extort the poor, and finally appointing some ghastly, florid quack to head up the royal medical household! And all the fucking charm of a loading bay on a wet Tuesday to boot! Where’s Oliver Cromwell when you fucking need him? 

2023 saw newspaper columnist Sarah Vine opining, following an adverse exchange with a British Airways employee, that Britain was a broken place. ‘Our rivers are polluted and our streets are overrun with lunatics wielding machetes,’ she lamented.

Mother Mary’s thrust-bruised coccyx, one part complete bollocks to put the wind up senile idiots in the fucking shires and the other true, but who was it who did the polluting? Or shitting, not to put too fine a fucking point on it? Your ex-husband, that Pogles’ Wood cunt Gove and his mates, that’s who! If Britain’s gone to the dogs, that’s not fucking Woke Prince Harry’s fault! It’s your beloved fucking Tories who’ve been running down the country for years! 14 years in May, praise fucking be!

Rishi Sunak ended the year persuading the RAF to continue a £40m a year contract so he does not lose his VIP helicopter rides.

Jesus fucking Joseph, the grifting never stops with you fuckers, does it? The leeching, the corruption, the environment-destroying, the deluded sense of personal fucking entitlement, the all-round, day-in-day out, out-and-out cuntery! And then you’ve got the nerve to tub thump about scrounging immigrants trying to live every week on what you ‘earn’ in a fucking second!

Baroness Mone finally admitted that she and her husband were involved in PPE Medpro, which made profits of £60m selling PPE during the pandemic. She invited BBC viewers to sympathise with her during a harrowing time.

Why? Why was she interviewed on mainstream TV and not in a dimly lit basement room at her local fucking police station? I mean, we’re not talking about stealing baby formula here, for which the law would come down on you like a ton of bricks, we’re talking about millions of fucking pounds! And now what, eh? Back to your yacht now that you’ve cleared the air? Just once, just the fucking once I’d like to see one of you fraudsters face some consequences!

Noel Gallagher, formerly of Oasis, said he considers the Beach Boys ‘overrated’ and songwriter Brian Wilson excessively revered.

Yeah, from the very low cultural vantage point you occupy, staring far up at the Beach Boys in the firmament, you must have a hard job making them out at all! You see, the thing is the Beach Boys are up there with the fucking Beatles, which only the cretinized clothheads who worship you laughingly imagine Oasis to be. By any objective assessment you’re way down with the fucking Grumbleweeds or worse! There’s Oasis tribute bands who are better than fucking Oasis! So shut the fuck up about everything for ever, you cunt!

Finally, 2023 was the year that Rupert Murdoch passed away at the grand old age of 93.

Except it fucking well wasn’t, was it? Way to demonstrate the power of prayer, eh? I spent two solid hours on my knees last New Year’s Eve, clutching beads like a fucking left-footer, praying, praying, praying ‘let this year be the year the hideous, human life-ruining reptile pegs it. Die, die, die, die, die!’ And did he? Did he fuck! Wasps and the continued existence of fucking Murdoch! Two reasons why there’s no God!

2023 has been the year of Rishi. 'Like 1996 was the year of John Major,' says my wife

From the diary of Rishi Sunak, 2023’s only prime minister (!)

MY first full year as prime minister couldn’t have gone better. We are poised and ready for the great poll turnaround of 2024. ‘I have another perspective,’ says my wife. 

‘I was talking to John Major after the Coronation – nice man, servile – about his last years. Beset by idiot cabinet members crazed with xenophobia. All around him MPs kicked out for bizarre sexual practices. Losing by-elections weekly. Defeat inevitable.’

‘And this is relevant to me how?’ I ask. ‘John Major’s government was so despised it locked the Tories out of power for 13 years. He was forever abhorred by his party afterwards. Where are the similarities?’

Akshata nods slowly, like when she’s explaining bond markets to the children. She says: ‘So if we thought experiment the great poll turnaround not happening as planned? The recession arriving? The autumn election ending in Tory wipeout?

‘The party collapsing into in-fighting? Electing a succession of wholly repellent leaders? Losing again and again to a Labour who have remembered everyone hates the lefties?’

I’m given pause for thought. And in truth I have entertained doubts, often after PMQs, that history may not be as on my side as I’ve always assumed. I look around Cabinet meetings and conclude that none of these people approach being employable.

‘But John Major is not even remembered,’ I splutter. ‘The water closed over him and his five years as prime minister as if they never happened.’

‘He told me seven years,’ says Akshata, ‘and that is a good thing. Once we are in Silicon Valley your past will be as forgotten as Nick Clegg’s. I’m lining up your interviews.’

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