Your astrological week ahead for April 20th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

‘They say our love won’t pay the rent’? It won’t, unless you’re both employed at an Amsterdam sex show. Or met on Love Island. Or, to be fair, are Sonny and Cher. ME

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Kebab. Bath. Wank: the thinking man’s triathlon.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Minnie Mouse has been with Mickey for nearly a hundred years and their sex life hasn’t suffered for it. At least that’s what you believe.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Weird Salman Rushdie’s not gone for the eyepatch-monocle combo. Come on man, when life gives you lemons make lemonade.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

When a man is tired of Londis, he is tired of life.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You once tried to climb Ben Nevis in flip flops. He’s a tall bloke from the finance department.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Four-and-twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie, when the pie was opened the birds began to sing and all chance of a Hollywood handshake evaporated.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

The worst bit of being an organ donor is all the recipients of your organs who are mystically drawn to you, convinced you’re meant to be together.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

“Hi, I’m your neighbour? Just here to have a quick boundary dispute with you. That’s my coffee, actually.”

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Never lift an empty shell to your ear. If you do, you hear the sounds of a divorced man taking his children to McDonalds.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

‘Birds are a bit twitchy, aren’t they? Got no chill.’ So read your report to the Big Garden Birdwatch.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

I like my men how I like my coffee. I don’t like coffee.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that's more than enough Liz f**king Truss, thanks

WAKING up on a bed of empty rum bottles, my anus emitting wind at a prodigious rate and my head thudding as if a small, angry, right-wing man were trapped inside it, I sip a gallon of water to restore my faculties and reflect upon a recent financial initiative. 

I have faced criticism for the amount of ‘industrial’ language with which my sermons are peppered, with the Church feeling compelled to forbid those under 21 years of age from attending my services. 

I therefore decided to attach a swear box to my pulpit, in order to raise private funds for good causes. My sermon this week, ‘Why the FA are a bunch of fucking cunts for abolishing FA Cup replays, as Christ our Lord is my twatting witness’, for example, raised £1,000 for good causes as I warmed to my theme. Senior members of the clergy were squeamish at this scheme but as I told them in a summit meeting, ‘Where there’s fuck, there’s brass.’ 

And so I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Liz Truss has received a large amount of publicity for her new book, Ten Years To Save The West.

Joseph’s withered, unused dick, why the fuck are we hearing so much from Liz Truss? I know she’s got a book out but does there not come a point at which we stop gawping at fucking awful public people with rapt fascination? We may as well listen to Matt Le Tissier on how the weather is a fucking government conspiracy, or Ian Brown thinking the New World Order gives a shit about his Covid jab. If anyone needs to be fired out of a fucking cannon into the sea with heavy weights attached, it’s this Poundshop Ayn Rand, metaphorical evidence – literal evidence is also available – of how shit floats to the top in our fucked political system! 

Taylor Swift has ‘dropped’ a new album, rumoured to be inspired, lyrically, by her brief dalliance with Matty Healy, frontman of beat group The 1975.

Christ’s leathery scrotum, how could any sort of sentient human being bear to be in close proximity to a jammy little rodent like Matty fucking Healy? Just one of the worst twats ever to luck into a lucrative music career in music while millions of more talented musicians languish in obscurity because they couldn’t think of a wanky fucking name for their band. Christ’s sake, Taylor, you’re a fucking billionaire, you’ve got the pick of humanity and you pick out this creepy little cunt? I think we’d all agree a better title for the album would have been What In The Holy Name Of Fuck Was I Thinking?

Former England cricketer Ian Botham has expressed the following patriotic opinion on social media: ‘Personally, I think England is an island and we should remember that and be very proud.’

The fuck? England isn’t an island, on account of having Wales and Scotland attached to it, so that blows you out of the water like the shitewit you are for a fucking start! In any case, what’s to be proud of, happening to be born on a generally cold, rain-soaked rock in the fucking Atlantic? You might as well be proud of being a fucking puffin! And what kind of history-ignoring spanner declares pride in being fucking English? I’m so ashamed of being English when I’m out and about in Europe I pass myself off as Jan Tielemanns, a travelling Belgian encyclopaedia salesman, and he’s a boring fuck who collects international beermats!

Finally, after the knife attack in Sydney, Countdown personality Rachel Riley tweeted that it was Islamic terrorism, only for the killer to turn out to be a white Australian. She later apologised for any ‘misunderstanding’ her tweet may have caused.

Oh, there was no misunderstanding, you poisonous sum-solving fuck! Don’t gaslight us! We knew exactly what you were saying as you jumped the fucking gun: ‘Muslims do all the terror, so the sooner they’re bombed the better, and we don’t have to wait for the facts to come in before we state that outright.’ The only fucking Countdown there should be in your career is the days till you’re fucking sacked!