Your astrological week ahead for March 2nd, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts and you’ve got the only key? That can’t be right.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

If you’re going to do a half marathon, definitely do the first half. The second half is knackering.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

‘Yeah well at least I didn’t spend four billion dollars buying Star Wars and then fuck up the franchise irreparably!’ you shout, in an argument about household budgeting.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You always hoped they might get back together, but you’ve accepted it’s over and resigned yourself to throwing out your Rough Guide to Yugoslavia.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

It’s a sex bike. Like a quad bike, but with two extra wheels.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Pretend you’re in the Red Arrows by running around your living room spraying a can of Febreze behind your back.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Poor Bianca Censori didn’t know what she was getting into with Kanye West. After all they got together in 2022, when he’d only been fully off his tits on his own power for 12 years.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Shake what your mama gave you? What, stress-induced psoriasis?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Sometimes you wonder if you’ll ever have the opportunity, while fighting a big goon, to jam a bucket over his head causing him to wander around confused asking ‘who turned out the lights?’

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Infidelity in the 21st century is telling a man how much you enjoyed another man’s podcast.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

The worst tarot card you can pull is ‘Go To Jail. Go Directly to Jail. Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Collect £200.’

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Want to feel old? Why? What the fuck’s wrong with you?

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the Tories knowing f**k all about the British way of life

WAKING up with a headache that feels like my brain matter has been trampled by an angry donkey, I reflect on the events of the last two days. I had attended an informal international event, established in 1886 among the world’s Archbishops: a masturbation contest.

We wear full garb, reflecting our pride in our ecclesiastical status, as well as a joy in what, with respect to our more austere Catholic friends, we have come to regard as one of God’s greatest gifts.

We meet inside a chalk circle and pleasure ourselves communally, with a panel of judges assessing our efforts on the basis of height of plume, majesty of arc, viscosity and so forth. I won for the eighth year running, having perfected the art of mentally conjuring Gloria Hunniford in her prime.

With a stretch of my tired fingers, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Jools Holland of Squeeze and Hootenanny fame is to feature in a revamp of Radio 3 with a Saturday programme.

Fuck my dog with a frozen sausage, why does that weaselly, creepy, obsequious, Uriah Heep-like little cunt Jools Holland have to be involved in every single fucking corner of British musical culture? It started with The Tube, ruining 80s pop, then continued for the next 40 years with every New Years Eve rendered intolerable with his insistence on tinkling the bastard ivories over the top of every touring musician! We thought we were safe on Radio 3, a sequestered cloister where we could listen to a bit of fucking Beethoven and shit, but no, in he barrels with his boogie-woogie fucking Bach or whatever! Fuck right off back up the colon of Deptford, you greasy fucking arse!

50 per cent of Conservative Party members believe that Muslims represent a danger to the ‘British way of life’, it has emerged.

Oh, really? And what colourless, flavourless, spam-infested, pinched, small-moustached 1950s joylessness would this ‘British way of life’ represent? Some John Major-inspired shit about 80-year-old virgins cycling to church in the fucking drizzle? Long grey socks and violent, character building injuries in the fucking playground? Golliwogs dangling from nooses on display outside every village store? Just die, die, as soon as possible die, you fucking awful cunts, so the rest of us can finally get on with our lives without your geriatric stranglehold!

Much touted combo The Last Dinner Party have ascribed their success to the ‘escapism’ of their music, with lead singer Abigail Morris explaining that a lot of people don’t want to hear about the cost of living crisis. Morris enjoyed an expensive private education while the band got their first lucky break supporting The Rolling Stones.

Fucking hell, I’d not so much put this down to ‘escapism’ as having a shitload of invisible levers of privilege and connections the rest of us poor twats can only fucking dream about! But let’s face it, a privileged background is the only way you’re gonna make it big in the indie music business these days, right? You bet most people don’t want to hear about the fucking cost of living crisis, but unlike Abigail and her fascinatingly decadent mates who look like they fell out of a gymkhana and into a fancy dress shop, they’ve no option because it’s screaming in their ears every shitting day! Also, the Rolling Stones! Testicle-faced old cunts!

Finally, Rishi Sunak has warned about the dangers of ‘mob rule’ in the face of ongoing protests against the war in Gaza.

You know what? Given the choice between being ruled by the sort of people who take time out of their busy, decent lives to protest a fucking genocide, people from all races and creeds, incidentally, you snivelling, insinuating little runt, I’d take them over the bunch of incompetent, jumped up, corrupt, tiny-minded quasi-fascists who form your protective guard! You know, doctors, students, intellectuals, and teachers protesting against your grossly over-promoted clique of failed fucking management consultants and would-be GB News presenters! You’d have to go back to about the fucking 13th century to find a worse bunch of brigands running Britain than you twats!