Your astrological week ahead for March 16th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Big Gillingham vs Grimsby game this afternoon. By Christ that’s a grudge match.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You know Wilfred Owen? War poet, died on the last day of the Great War? Last bullet fired in fact? Wasn’t even the enemy, it was friendly fire? Went through his heart, destroyed an unpublished book of poems, and killed his pet pigeon Kaiser?

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Love does last forever. Just ask your wife how she feels about her ex.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

The dialogue in most pornography is improvised by the actors, a technique stolen from Mike Leigh movies.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Racing tip: pick a winner based on the name of the horse you’d least like to see humanely destroyed.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

“No, Cheryl and I appeared on Pimp My Bride in 2006. Entirely different show.”

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Can people smell when you’ve had a wank? Asking for a friend.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Pretend to be a musician by leaving the office early and only returning to finish your work after sustained applause and cheering.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Remember that embarrassing time you accidentally called your mum ‘Mrs Bunting, my old Primary School teacher’?

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Not got much fucking repeat value has it, reality TV? Nobody’s settling down with a box-set of season five of The X-Factor. 

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Starve a fever, feed a cold, serve entrees to gastroenteritis, make dinner for diphtheria.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Given the phrase ‘colder than a witch’s tit’ it’s odd witchfinders didn’t use that to identify their quarry. Perk of the job etcetera.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... going without a shit for three days to see f**king Coldplay

WAKING up in a puddle of very stale vomit, possibly mine, possibly Gloria Hunniford’s, I look back fondly on a several-month-long alcoholic ‘binge’. My complete absence from public life prompted concerns about my health, but these I assuaged by issuing a photograph of myself in my briefs, clearly in the rudest of health. 

A furore immediately erupted; I had clearly ‘photoshopped’ my head onto the body of Mr Arnold Schwarzenegger, circa 1975 and his Pumping Iron period. This was a calumny, of course. I arranged a press conference in which I appeared, minus cassock, in my underpants, impressing one and all with my deceptively rippling, muscular physique and bulging tighty whities. 

One requires a body of steel to go drink for drink with Gloria Hunniford, as indeed I did last night. I dust myself down, repair to my chambers, and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Tory donor Frank Hester commented that Diane Abbott made him ‘want to hate all black women’. He was condemned by numerous MPs, including Labour’s Jess Phillips.

Fuck’s sake, of course Hester’s gonna turn out to be a complete, copper-bottomed bigot behind closed doors – he donates money to the fucking Tory party. But clock the hypocrites in Abbott’s own party! Jess Phillips, bragging about how she once told Abbott to fuck off. Or that hapless fucking fugitive from a Last of the Summer Wine reboot, Lindsay Hoyle. Forty-six times she tried to speak in a debate about herself! Get your arse off that fucking woolsack, put yourself in a bathtub and roll yourself down the hill into a fucking canal, you useless old twat!

Meanwhile, while acknowledging that Hester’s remarks were ‘unacceptable’ without specifying why, senior Tories have rejected suggestions that they return his ten million pounds. Michael Gove has said that Hester’s remarks were not ‘extremist’, and that he deserves ‘Christian forgiveness’. 

Well, I’m the chief fucking Christian in this country if you discount the fucking left footers and here’s what I say: he deserves to be poked hard in the bollocks with a sharp fucking stick! I daresay his remarks aren’t extreme in the community of cocks you circulate in, Gove, but no, definitely keep the money. You Tories couldn’t bear to part with 50 quid even if it was donated by fucking Himmler, could you, you evil, avaricious fuckfaces?

The Glastonbury line-up has been announced; among those headlining are those noted paragons of white music Coldplay.

Well suck my donkey’s cock and spit the semen in a rusty fucking bucket. Coldplay? They’re still fucking going? They didn’t evaporate out of sheer fucking insipidness about five years ago like the fucking eau de fuck all that they are? And there are people prepared to stand in a muddy field for a long weekend, pitch a tent by a river of piss and go without a shit for three days just to see Coldplay? Humanity’s fucking doomed, and I say that as its loving shepherd.

Finally, it seems that anxious senior members of the Conservative party believe Rishi Sunak may need to be replaced if the Tories are to win the forthcoming General Election.

Seriously, you fucking think? And who are you gonna replace him with? What specimen is floating, turd-like, atop the cesspool of Tory talent? Which total shit can you fish out and install, unelected yet again, in No. 10? Peter Bone? Robert Jenrick? The dug-up remains of Margaret Thatcher? Seriously, I’m a prayer bloke. I do prays, I pray like fuck for all the fucking good it does, and let me tell you something about prayers – you haven’t got one! You’re fucked. Half your fucking MPs know it, which is why they’re deserting the party like West Ham fans fucking off home after going three-nil down to Arsenal after half a fucking hour!