Your astrological week ahead for April 27th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Anyone’s who’s in a coercive relationship, raise their partner’s hand.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Dress for the job you want, unless that job is as the extra playing a naked, decomposed cadaver pulled out of a canal in Silent Witness.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Geminis find this horoscope fascinating, useful and predictive. They consider the financial advice sound and an improvement to their romantic prospects hopeful. They differ on the effect of Mercury entering their social zone. Who says AI can’t do astrology?

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You smugly know all the US state capitals, but if you met an American who knew all the English county towns you’d be disgusted. A Texan who’d heard of Shrewsbury? Urgh.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

“We’re sorry, but the Tortured Poets Department is experiencing unusually high call volumes. You are number 27 in the queue. Please hold.” Three Lions plays for next 50 minutes.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You’ve bought a robot hoover so now Henry can be your lover.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

If you think you have a tough job, imagine being the member of the gang who has to design the logo.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Your nan doesn’t f**k about with mint tea. ‘You might as well be drinking piss’, she says, as if she knows all too well.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

I was too chaotic for the Mafia. I had to work in disorganised crime instead.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

High five. Up high. Down low. Too slow. You felt a pit open up in your stomach just reading that.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

But do they sell a Lego set that will mend your broken heart? Yes, they do, but it’s £489.99.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

“And how exactly would I go about ‘buggering off’? It seems a process fraught with difficulty.”

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... a shitty week for horses

WAKING up with a hangover roughly the size of Grimsby, I recall the excitement of earlier this week. The binmen had come to recycle my bottles – a larger consignment than usual, which I had deposited in a giant green wheelie bin. 

As the empty vodka, gin and wine bottles crashed with a loud report into the back of the dustcart, it seems the sudden sound caused Household Cavalry horses to rear up with a start, throw off their riders and gallop frenziedly through the streets of Central London like harbingers of the Apocalypse. 

The moral of this story is never to miss bin day and allow your bottles to accumulate over a fortnight.

That lesson learned, I attend to my breakfast tray and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Conservative MP Mark Jenkinson has asserted that Labour’s plans to renationalise the railways would take us back to the dark days of the 1970s and herald ‘the return of the British Rail sandwich’. Mr Jenkinson was born in 1982.

You don’t remember shit, you spotty little Tory twat! Twelve years old when British Rail was turned into a mechanism to channel ‘customers’ money directly into offshore accounts! You don’t remember not having to take out a fucking mortgage to travel to Newcastle. Or not getting fucking stampeded at Euston because they announce the trains so late. Or have Richard Branson raking it in with his fucking clown car rail service! I would eat literal shit sandwiches in return for renationalisation! And regular commuters would ask for second fucking helpings!

Coventry City put up a grand fight in the Football Association Challenge Cup semi-final against Manchester United, only to be denied a winning goal by VAR technology in the dying seconds of the game.

You know what God thinks? Fuck VAR. Fuck it right up Satan’s arse! Fuck it in a boiling vat of elephant smegma! Fuck it frontways, sideways, every fucking way! We could all do with a laugh and one of the biggest laughs in football history, Man U going from 3-0 up to 4-3 down against Coventry City, was denied by some cunt with a ruler and no fucking soul! You call that offside? Based on the blurry 1980s Atari visuals of that fucking still? Just give the goal, you pedantic, adenoidal little arsehole! ‘Romance of the Cup’, my bollocks! This was as romantic as going on a first date and taking out a pocket fucking calculator to split the fucking restaurant bill! 

Also in the world of football, John Terry has been in the news after recounting a story in which he and his fellow Chelsea players told the manager they would boycott a flight unless they were moved from economy to first class.

A word in your ear, Terry, you whining fuck. When it comes to planes, you don’t belong in first class. You don’t belong in economy class. You belong in a class of your own: fucking Terry class, which is a lead box at the back of the plane, with the luggage, in temperatures of minus 20 degrees. Everyone fucking hates you. Everyone cheered when you slipped on your fucking arse taking a penalty that would have won Chelsea the European Cup. Including, I suspect, the handful of decent Chelsea fans, some fellow players and Chelsea staff! That’s because you are, without doubt, the worst copper-bottomed cunt ever to pull on a pair of fucking shorts!

Finally, St George’s Day was celebrated this week, with far-right demonstrators marking the event by starting fights and assaulting a police horse in central London.

Fuck me, it’s been a shit week for horses, hasn’t it? Bolting through Central London, getting the crap beaten out of them by boneheaded, pissed-up Nazis! Still, God bless St George, eh, a Greek man born in what’s now Turkey, who became a Roman soldier, ended up buried in Israel and almost certainly never slayed a dragon on account of dragons not fucking existing! Can you imagine if he’d washed up on British shores today, this most foreign of fucking foreigners, in his dinghy, clutching an impressively dead dragon’s head? He’d have been first on the passenger list to fucking Rwanda!