WAKING with a hangover so intense dogs can hear it and their owners are wondering why they are howling uncontrollably, I sip several gallons of mineral water and reflect on an encounter with Mr Andrew Burnham.

I was commissioned by the Church Gazette to interview the newly elected Labour MP, who many believe is the prime minister in waiting. The interview took place in my office and proceeded as follows.

MYSELF: Good afternoon, Andrew.

BURNHAM: Oh, call me ‘Andy’.

MYSELF: So, Andrew. What can you tell me about yourself, your ideology, the difference you intend to make if appointed prime minister?

BURNHAM: Well, I’m from the North. I like football and Britpop.

MYSELF: Is that it?

BURNHAM: Oh, and I’m ‘Andy’. Please, call me Andy.

MYSELF: I’m not going to call you ‘Andy’, this isn’t Australia! So, again, what policies do you intend to promote? Apart from being Northern?

BURNHAM: Well, there’s the football. And Britpop. And being called ‘Andy’. And let’s not forget, I’m Northern.

MYSELF: Sadly as far as I can see, you’re just another white bloke in a suit and glasses who’s just going to do whatever the bond markets tell you, despite them not giving a shit about Britain. Correct?

BURNHAM: No, I’m from the North. Big change there.

MYSELF: Well, why don’t you head back up there?

[Interview terminated.]

With a sigh, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Keir Starmer has resigned as Labour leader, claiming that he inherited a party that was ‘financially and morally bankrupt’.

Fuck me, you shabby little silverback, the lies continue right to the end of your wretched, murdering, flag-shagging, transphobic, old-people-freezing tenure, don’t they? Labour wasn’t financially bankrupt, it was bobbing along on honest money, subscriptions from members, who’ve left in droves! So now you’re relying on big donations from private health companies and the like who, as we all know, do it out of the kindness of their hearts! And if it was so morally bankrupt, how come you were on its front bench cheering it along, you hypocritical cunt? Off you go forever!

In the Telegraph, one Ysenda Maxtone Graham has written an article entitled ‘Heatwave hysterics wouldn’t have lasted a day in 1976’, asserting that children back then cheerily rode their bikes along dried-up riverbeds and soldiered on in hot classrooms without bottled water.

That’s right, ‘Ysenda’, advising children to drink water in temperatures of 38 degrees is just namby-pamby, cosseting wokeness gone mad and 70s kids were basically human dromedaries who could function without water for months on end! Keep up advice like this to the Telegraph readership! Because the more old fascists who keel over from the heat before the next general election, the better!

Roisin Murphy, star of the discotheque circuit, has stated that trans activists are not welcome at any of her concerts. The singer has a long history of anti-trans posts.

What the fuck? Seriously, what the actual fuck? That’s like Lemmy saying anyone in favour of heavy metal is no longer welcome at Motörhead gigs! Have you listened to your own music? Do you know the kind of people who listen to that music? Do you think Graham Linehan, JK Rowling, Sharron Davies, and the rest of the transphobic brigade are planning to dance the night away under the glitterball at any of your gigs? Not a chance! You have performed what was thought to be an impossible manoeuvre – you have fucked yourself up your own arse!

Finally, head of FIFA Gianni Infantino has claimed that the ‘hydration breaks’ introduced in the 2026 World Cup have nothing to do with creating extra opportunities for advertising.

As ever, you ghastly, slapheaded, comically evil little mini-Trump, you are lying like the liar that you are! What the fuck is the need for hydration breaks in domed, air-conditioned stadia with the temperature set at 22 degrees? Everybody knows it, everybody hates it – fans, players, managers, viewers, everyone except the moneysucking goblins determined to wring every last cent out of football at the expense of its soul! No wonder you are booed literally everywhere you go! I bet your dog boos you when you get home!