Your astrological week ahead for March 24th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Amazing to think Salt-N-Pepa would never have recorded Push It if their Hillman Imp had started first time.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

This week, seize the day. Seize it! Get a hold of it and pin that fucker down! It’s getting away! Guards!

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

It’s terrible meeting an Olympian in person because they expect you to remember what sport they did.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Women: Save money on manicures by getting one hand done and keeping the other in your pocket.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

The Kray Twins would have been far less menacing if they had been triplets. They would just have been funny.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

‘Big naturals’ is an unpleasant phrase, yes, but not when you compare it to ‘big unnaturals’, so perhaps your search history isn’t so reprehensible after all.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Birkin bag? No, this is a Parkin bag. For keeping parkin in.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

There you are, at the gig, and the singer’s exhorting everyone to make some noise? When that’s what he’s paid for?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Never mix antipasta and pasta on the same plate. The resulting explosion will destroy the world.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Homes Under the Hammer is unrealistic. You never see an evil property developer’s plan to turn a rundown old theatre into apartments ruined by a team of Muppets organising a talent contest.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Dance like no one’s watching. Love like you can’t be hurt. Do a massive Guinness dump in your parents’ downstairs loo.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

This week you announce your residency in Las Vegas. May 26th to June 1st. Room 3012, the Golden Nugget Hotel and Casino.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on… end this f**king James Bond shit now

WAKING up in a bathtub full of empty vodka bottles, breaking wind wetly and relieving a mysterious thirst I have acquired by wrapping my mouth around the cold tap turned to full, I reflect on yesterday’s ecclesiastical events. 

I was droning through another sermon at the Abbey, trying not to listen to myself lest I nod off with boredom, when I had what I can only describe as a religious awakening. Despite my rank in the church I have never been remotely religious; I am in this profession purely to fund my particular lifestyle and do not even own a Bible. 

However, I was aware of a shaft of light coming through one of the upper windows and a booming voice inside my head saying, ‘Jesus is real!’ Overcome with the Holy Spirit, I began to babble: ‘My brethren, Jesus is our Lord and saviour! Repent now, for the hour of judgement is at hand!’ This visibly distressed many in the pews and a clerk attempted to remove me, causing me to tumble down the pulpit steps and bang my skull on the hard floor. 

That appeared to do the trick. The Holy Spirit, or whatever delusion it was, dispersed immediately and I was restored to sanity. With a wry smile, I climb out of the bath and take breakfast while perusing a periodical. I find that Esther McVey, the ‘Minister for Common Sense’, and a fierce critic of waste, has been claiming expenses to rent a London property despite her husband owning a flat a mile away.

Jesus H Cockrot, the fucking grift never stops with you two-faced fucks, does it? ‘Minister for Common Sense’ my mottled arse! ‘Minister for Fleecing the Public Purse’ more fucking likely! And once this latest turd has bobbed past on the endless river of sewage that is political life in this country, you’ll be back to wagging your finger at civil servants about not wasting fucking paperclips, won’t you, you shameless shitehawk? 

Speculation is rife as to the identity of the next James Bond, with the name of Aaron Taylor-Johnson squarely in the frame.

Sorry, I’m gonna have to stop myself right there. How fucking old are we as a society? 12? What kind of pubescent fucking popcornhead is still getting excited about James Bond? A sexist pisshead in evening dress singlehandedly takes out fucking supervillains in underwater lairs as the Americans look on helplessly, then gets rewarded with a fuck in a dinghy? Seriously, just end this shit. It’s this and the fucking monarchy that keeps us in a perpetual state of arrested fucking development!

A former Gogglebox star has been selected by Labour to run against deputy PM Oliver Dowden at the election. Josh Tapper, who appeared on the Channel 4 show with his family, has been confirmed as candidate for Hertsmere.

Josh fucking Tapper. The name alone tells you what kind of fatuous specimen of Snapchat juvenilia we’re fucking dealing with here! ‘Hi, I’m Josh Tapper, vote for me as the next estate agent for Hertsmere, I’m a waste of a fucking off-the-peg suit.’ Fuck off back to your family sofa to make groaning noises while watching a reality TV show, in a postmodern loop of fucking pointlessness. This is what you’re expecting us to vote for, Labour, you desperate, dismal arseholes? Josh Tapper, MP for grinning nothingness?

And finally, I read that ‘journalist’ Rod Liddle made an appearance on BBC Question Time this week.

Fucking brilliant. This oozing apology for a human being. Said he couldn’t be a teacher because he’d want to fuck the kids. Ha ha, how fucking edgy. I seem to recall he also wondered what was wrong with looking at child porn and assaulted his girlfriend too, so that’s just fine, Rod, go and sit over there with all the other far-right fuckers who make up the panel these days! You’re in good company with that mad bint Melanie Phillips, who thinks we should trust dodgy YouTube videos instead of the fucking UN about Gaza. Still, freedom of speech, eh? Which according to the BBC you’re only entitled to if you’re a physically and morally disgusting fucking troll!