WAKING up on a cobbled street of back yards to terraced houses, my head feeling like the ecosystem of the planet Mercury, I haul myself upright and wonder what surroundings I have somehow fetched up in.
I run toward a high street in search of elucidation. It becomes clear, as I survey the pedestrians and shopfronts, that I have somehow been transported back in time to somewhere between 1987 and 1992. Most HG Wellsian.
I frantically approach a young man with a mullet to try and ascertain my temporal whereabouts. ‘Sir!’ I say, ‘Tell me – has the Berlin Wall fallen? Is Nelson Mandela still imprisoned?’ He brushes me off, brusquely. ‘Get yer fookin’ hands off me, or I’ll fookin’ bray yer!’ he growls.
Seconds later, I am joined by my private secretary, who has evidently been sucked into the same temporal wormhole. I explain to him our desperate situation. We must find the portal back to 2024 at all costs.
‘But Your Grace, we are in the year 2024. This is Doncaster. We are here on ecclesiastical business.’
Well. That explains everything. Our church business concluded, I return to London and my chambers to peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that the government are to announce a crackdown on benefit fraud.
Oh fuck my dead cat, fantastic! Let’s go after the real fucking villains! Not Labour-donating super-rich companies, but the benefit fraudsters, who cost us a princely one pence a fucking decade! And when we’re done with benefit fraud, let’s go after fucking beggars with unlicensed dogs! We can appoint a fucking Homeless Dog Licence Tsar! It’s the perfect bullshit policy for you cunts determined to do fuck all except ride around in posh fucking cars!
Elon Musk, the owner of social media site X, has once again urged people to stop calling it Twitter.
To which I can only respond: Twitter. Twitter. Twitter. Twitter fucking Twitter. Should we stop calling Twitter Twitter? Should we no longer refer to tweeting a tweet on Twitter? I’m not sure, I’ll fucking ask Twitter. Get real, Elon, you fascist spadeful of fuck! People will be calling it Twitter long after you’ve been burned alive 150 feet above the ground in a disastrous attempt at a solo flight to Mars using a giant flaming catapult of your own devising!
Talk TV host Kevin O’ Sullivan has discovered an egregious example of TV wokery, complaining that in the forthcoming series Sherwood, which he supposes to be about Robin Hood, the Sheriff of Nottingham will be a lesbian.
Yeah, except as two seconds of fucking research would have informed you, Sherwood is set during the fucking miners’ strike and has fuck all to do with Robin Hood, Little John or Friar fucking Tuck, you dismal fucking shitewit! If a normal human being had to have this explained to them on social media they’d blush until their fucking capillaries burst, emigrate to Africa and spend the rest of their life hiding under a rock in the Serengeti out of fucking shame! But not you, eh, Kev? Just another shovelful of manure to heap on the pig-ignorant fucking herd who pay your fucking mortgage!
Finally, it seems the new banknotes featuring the countenance of King Charles are finally finding their way into the cash registers and change of everyday transactions.
Seriously? People are actually accepting this as fucking legal tender? I wouldn’t! If there was a tenner with your miserable fizzog on my collection plate I’d reject it like a fucking £25 note or one with Nigel fucking Farage on it! You actually think you’ve built up enough credibility in your spectacularly unmemorable time as monarch that your blotchy, pissed-every-afternoon-since-1978 face is suitable for actual fucking money? Jane Austen, yes! Florence Nightingale, yes! Alan Turing, yes! Alan fucking Carr, yes! But you? Fuck right off!
