Your astrological week ahead for June 15th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You’re just a man, idly scrolling through his phone, during the birth of his first child.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Why hasn’t music today got a nice tune you can whistle? Specifically, why isn’t every song the Scorpions’ 1990 hit Wind of Change?

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Imagine Boris Johnson’s mantelpiece on Father’s Day. Not a f**king card on it.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

But why put an apple in a pig’s mouth? Why not a banana or an orange? Or are we supposed to believe that the pig died at the exact moment he was eating an apple? What a betrayal.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

“How about YOU simmer for 20 minutes?” – man having an argument with a recipe.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

“Billy Zane is not my girl, no, he’s a guy who used to date Kelly Brook. My God her acting sucked.”

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Do you own a pet? Please mark yes, no, or goldfish.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Avoid upstaging the bride at her wedding by wearing a funeral shroud.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Abstract art is for middle-class cowards. A picture of a nude woman riding a motorcycle through a gauntlet of flames tells guests who you truly are.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

The worst part of a static shock when stroking your cat is knowing from body-swap movies tomorrow you’ll be licking your own testicles while Tibbles has an 8am with Colonel Peterson.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Can’t believe it’s Euro 96 again. Comes round quicker every year.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You no longer have to take your liquids out when you go through security at the airport, but you do have to remove all of your solids.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Sunak's heartbreaking tale of growing up without QVC

WAKING with a hangover so thumping I expect a gorilla’s fist to come bursting out of my cranium at any moment, I reflect on the meeting that led me to drink.

Having met Rishi Sunak I was now obliged to have an audience with the leader of the opposition Sir Keir Starmer, who at least arrived punctually.

‘So,’ I said, peering at this curious living mannequin, ‘How do you intend to mend the nation’s public services should you be elected prime minister?’ ‘My father was a toolmaker,’ he said.

‘Ah,’ I replied. ‘And the NHS. You don’t intend to privatise the NHS, do you?’ ‘My father was a toolmaker,’ he said. ‘Okay. And how about taxing the wealthy?’ ‘My father was a -‘ ‘Say “My father was a toolmaker” one more time and I will be forced to strike you,’ I informed him gravely.

‘My father was… my father… made tools.’

I looked up at the high ceiling of my chambers as if spotting something unusual. As Mr Starmer instinctively turned his head upward also, I brutally smashed him on the chin with my staff, leaving him unconscious on the floor in a pool of blood as he rightly deserved.

That memory expunged, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Rishi Sunak, when asked if he was deprived of anything as a child, replied ‘Sky TV’.

Fuck me round the corner and back, you fucking what? Sky TV? Are you seriously telling me the full extent of the harrowing misery of your Dickensian upbringing was that you didn’t get to watch the fucking QVC channel? You are pulling my fucking penis! The reason you didn’t get Sky isn’t poverty, it’s that your parents were too snooty to own a satellite dish! Still, at least as a kid you got to see your beloved Southampton play at St Mary’s, a stadium they didn’t fucking move into until you were in your early 20s, you lying twat! And trust the silly cunt opposite you to jump on the bandwagon, saying he didn’t have Sky either. He grew up in the fucking 70s, him having Sky would have been as weird as having a fucking flying saucer!

England lost 1-0 to Iceland last week in a friendly. Most prominent among the defeated players featured on the back page of The Sun and other news outlets was Arsenal’s Bukayo Saka, although he only played 25 minutes and is recovering from a groin injury.

Gee, I fucking wonder what it is about Bukayo Saka that caught the Sun’s eye, as opposed to fucking Harry Kane, whose banjo steered high and wide of the cow’s arse more than once in front of goal, or that piss-streak of pop-eyed uselessness, Phil Foden? I think we all fucking know. Look, Saka was fucking useless, they all were – never mind a groin injury, he should have been carving up that Iceland defence with a fucking broken leg. But considering it’s 2024, any chance of you tabloid cunts dialling down the blatant racism slightly?

It is mid-June, and with temperatures set to soar to 14 degrees, I have advised my parishioners to keep well wrapped up and the central heating on.

If there’s any kind of God, bits of paper should be fluttering down all over the fucking country from the general direction of Heaven with ‘IOU ONE SPRING’ written on them. This time last year I was out starkers on my fucking balcony getting my bollocks roasted. This year it’s like fucking Game Of Thrones or something! Except we’re actually begging for dragons to breathe fire on our cities to warm them up a bit! I’d suggest praying for better weather, but we all know that’s as much use as a fucking rabbit’s paw!

Finally, it seems that Sunak aide Craig Williams was discovered to have bet £100 on the PM calling a July election, just days before he did. He stood to win £500 on the wager.

Hahaha, have you clocked a picture of this piece of fuck Williams? AI, show me a ruddy-faced, dead-eyed, porky prime slice of Young Conservative! Everything’s a fucking hustle with you fucking spivs and shysters, isn’t it? £500 is piss all to you, but you’ve always got to get a bit more cash. If you’d got any fucking sense you would have bet ten grand on yourself for leader of the Conservatives by 2029, because you’re the sort of smug, self-serving, ham-faced shitbag who’ll fucking win!