Last week, as a disciple of the religion of wokeness, I was busy boycotting products advertised on Andrew Sphagnum Moss Neil’s new anti-woke GB News channel, which has been difficult as many of them are goods and services I don’t use. Consequently, I spent Monday in the park under a willow tree trying determinedly to…
I am a pan-disciplinary recipient of the country’s two highest cultural accolades, the Bafta for film and television and the Olivier for theatre; I have been described by the Times as the “world’s greatest living standup comedian”; I have rapped in 10th-century Old English on a No 1 single; I won Celebrity Mastermind answering questions…
Many on the left have blamed Keir Starmer, and the white working class’s perceived abandonment by Labour’s patronising metropolitan elite, for the political survival of the corrupt liar Boris Johnson. And it helps that Johnson showered our body-strewn streets with costly vaccines, like a negligent drunken father suddenly treating his starving children to a spaff-up…
I first filed this supposedly funny column, about Boris Let the Bodies Pile High in Their Thousands Johnson’s wallpaper, at 8pm on Wednesday, 15 glorious hours before the Thursday 11am deadline. Now I could enjoy a leisurely morning cycle to a Pret a Manger™ ® breakfast bap with my name on it and some passive-aggressive…
Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! There can be few British traditions more English than that of the town crier. In his scarlet frock, tricorn hat, winklepicker shoes, white silk stockings and ermine posing pouch, the town crier’s bleating horn, clanging dong and horrid rasping voice have brought good news to the filthy peasant and the fragrant lord…