Your astrological week ahead for June 22nd, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

How dare the computer say your password is spelt incorrectly. It’s your f**king password. You decide how it’s spelt.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Red sky at night, angel delight. Red sky in morning, Hermann Göring.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

To you, Santa Monica is an aunt who dressed up in an inappropriately sexy outfit to leave your presents on Christmas Eve. But to Rishi Sunak, it’s home.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Next time you’re texted asking if you’ve recently been in a car accident, respond saying yes, you were fatally injured and your restless spirit wants revenge on the other driver. You’ll definitely get a call back.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

A big fish in a small pond sounds kind of cruel. Unsubscribe.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Wandering around a National Trust property, you slip backward in time to that same National Trust property in 1984.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Every day of your life ranked, from worst to best. Number one will surprise you!

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

American TV really oversold how much of dating would be bidding for someone you fancy in a charity auction.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

You know who should have done an Eras tour? Motörhead.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

It’s not really ‘painter and decorator’, is it? They’re not adding flourishes in gold leaf. It’s ‘painter and wallpaperer’.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

The secret to success is to find your passion. Then, become an investment banker.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

If you held the T-shirts up and then squirted them with water, you’d be able to see which T-shirt is most absorbent and wins the competition. There’s no need to put them on women.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... a Glastonbury line-up who should be playing Butlin's

WAKING with a hangover that would doubtless make a Geiger counter explode if it attempted to measure it, I reflect on what drove me to my present condition. The answer? Ed Davey.

I had arranged to meet my third prospective prime minister, Mr Davey, leader of the Liberal Democrats, who has had a somewhat lively campaign. He arrived at my chambers on a skateboard, dressed as a clown, and introduced himself by throwing a bucket of tinsel over my personage. 

‘Hi, I’m Mr Ed!’ he announced, in a wacky voice. ‘That’s why I’m a little hoarse. Hoarse! Horse! Get it? What do you say to that, Archbish?’

I looked him over. His was a familiar face. 

‘You were the cunt in charge when the Post Office fucked over the postmasters, weren’t you?’ I said, before applying my knee sharply between his legs. The fellow exited, grimacing, knock-kneed and weeping as he clutched his unmentionables. Truly I had done God’s work.

Dismissing the memory, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Just Stop Oil protestors sprayed Stonehenge with washable orange paint. The reaction was furious, with Labour’s David Lammy insisting it was ‘vandalism’ and the perpetrators should face ‘the full force of the law’. 

Feed my severed cock to my fucking hamster, this non-event has flushed out the hypocritical fucks, hasn’t it? People who care more of about inanimate objects and property than fucking human beings! It’s washable, Lammy. You could wash most of it away in a single piss, you fucking div. They’re building a road tunnel underneath Stonehenge, but you and the ‘party of drivers’ have got fuck all to say about that! And there’s a bit more than ‘vandalism’ going on right now in Gaza! Not a peep from you about that, you two-faced fucking creep!

The Conservative Party have put out a new campaign video, showing a red carpet being laid out on a British beach, implying Labour would welcome incoming migrants en masse.

Yeah, straight up fucking BNP, no messing. You know what? I would fucking welcome anyone desperate enough to come to a tepid Atlantic shithole like the UK and try and build a a life, and throw you fuckers in the sea instead! Although rest assured, the political cowards who laughingly call themselves Labour will be just as racist as you. Yep, you’ve decided to actually become a pissed, bigoted old uncle who ruins family dinners with his loathsome bollocks, and wets his trousers into the fucking bargain. And like a bigoted uncle being bundled into an afternoon cab, the country can’t wait for you to fuck off!

Glastonbury 2024 is set to commence next week, with the line-up set to include Coldplay, Avril Lavigne, Shania Twain and Paul Heaton.

Jesus shat his bed, spare me the fucking wall-to-wall, round-the-clock coverage of this fucking pseudo-countercultural, ozone-ruining farrago of helicoptered cultural spacewasters and has-beens! By rights they should be playing fucking Butlin’s, the Batley Variety Club or fucking chicken in a basket events in the fucking regions! It’s the fucking cows I feel sorry for, ‘cos they can’t even get off their fucking mooing heads! Still, it’ll be too cold, too wet or too hot, so the idiots who flock to overinflated wallet-emptying grifts like this will be fucking miserable at least!

Finally, England faced Denmark in the second game of their group stage, drawing 1-1 in what was considered a ‘frustrating’ performance by pundits.

Fuck me, ‘frustrating’? No – frustrating is being wank-denied by a Nigerian bishop turning up unexpectedly at Lambeth Palace just when you’re getting into your stroke. England were, without doubt, a pile of absolute lethargic, inept, steaming, stinking shite! Sure, there are better surfaces at fucking Glastonbury than that pitch, but Christ on a cock machine, the teams that turned out at fucking Soccer Aid would have put in a better performance than that! It’s fucking Denmark! Have you seen the size of it? Drawing to them was like drawing to fucking Wiltshire!