Your astrological week ahead for May 4th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Back in the 1950s you’d eat crap supermarket sushi and be bloody grateful.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

When Plato met Socrates they created an exercise regime both classical and timeless and called it Pilates.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

This week, you’ll inform Cher that it’s not in his eyes, it’s not in his face, it’s in his liver and it’s looking like it’s spread to his lymphatic system.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

A T-shirt reading ‘Batty&Foggy&Compo&Clegg’.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

“Hi, just circling back to check you really are alone, unarmed and unsuspecting. Okay, look forward to my emerging roaring from the darkness, club raised, shortly!”

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You’ll be glad to know that house prices are going down. Well, your house price is.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Workshopping cost-of-living-themed Gladiator names for the next series. Wouldn’t fancy taking on Steak Bake at the pugil sticks.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

You called 07700 900128 for a good time, like the toilet wall said, and it was just a man after sex. What about a fun song about a horse, or pleasing sproingy noises?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Fair play to 2Pac, he’s pretty popular for a dead lad.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

You want to eat a madeleine but every time you’re tormented by memories. It’s not Proustian, you’ve just had some very bad madeleines in the past.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Settle down to a relaxing cup of mint tea. It doesn’t do anything, but neither do you.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

The phrase ‘no show without Punch’ fails to take into account the Oscar-winning film Judy, starring Renee Zellweger, 2019.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... what sort of dick would pay £1,600 for a pint with Sting?

WAKING up with a hangover that, if it escaped from my skull, would probably melt through the earth to Australia like a nuclear incident, I look back on my campaign to establish a controversial new saint’s day.

We all know of King Canute, whose name was further rendered as Cnut – but scholars have now discreetly acknowledged that he would have been known in his day as King Cunt. Thus: St Cunt’s Day.

The purposes of St Cunt’s Day would be twofold – to re-establish the C of E’s frontline role in beatification, and to have a good laugh. On both counts, the Church council agreed to ratify my proposal, upon which I embarked on a 36-hour bibulous celebration.

Shrugging off my headache, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Susan Hall, Conservative candidate for London mayor, has put up a robust fight in the campaign.

Fuck the fossilised skeleton of the donkey Jesus rode in on! Susan Hall? In a sane world, she’d be a mad aunt locked in a fucking padded attic with food and water slid under her door twice a fucking day! Are we going collectively senile as a nation? Are we so doolally we’d consider letting a pop-eyed, bigoted, transphobic Thatcher corpse like Hall run anything more complicated than a fucking bath? Only in batshit Tory circles would you get this certified loony tunes standing on the platform of getting herself and everyone else killed with fucking traffic fumes!

Sting and Stephen Fry have both declared, in the light of recent news stories, that they will quit the Garrick Club if it does not agree to accept women as members.

Well, I must say, that is very fucking liberal and decent of you, chaps. You must have been shocked to learn that they didn’t allow women. There’s no way never, ever seeing a female in all the fucking years you went there might have been a clue as to their policy! Well done for your admirable feminist stance – you’re certainly not a pair of ossified, publicity-conscious arses suddenly piping up on an issue you never previously gave a toss about! And more to the point, what sort of Billy No-Mates would pay a £1,600 membership fee for a pint with fucking Sting? 

Former football pundit Mark Lawrenson has bitterly complained that the reason he has been dropped by the BBC is that he is a white, 65-year-old male and the BBC is ‘woke, 100 per cent’.

Yeah, fucking right. I bet that’s why they got in a one-legged, lesbian, Save The Whale pundit who’d never watched football in their lives to replace you. Oh, they didn’t. They got Alan fucking Shearer. You were, by a long fucking distance, the most miserable, dispiriting, mirthless, witless, spacewasting twat of a pundit and co-commentator in the BBC’s history. You made a job some people would give a fucking kidney for sound like a fucking chore you were carrying out with a gun to your fucking head! Never mind being ‘woke’ – sounding like you’re actually fucking awake and not about to nod off from self-pitying boredom helps!

Finally, it seems that Boris Johnson was turned away at his polling station, having failed to bring along the necessary ID, in line with the new requirements brought in under his government.

If you scripted this it’d be turned down by the BBC Head of Comedy as being too fucking shit, and they made Mrs Brown’s Boys. It’s typical of the Tories – cynically ‘identify’ a nonexistent problem – voter fraud, immigration, trans terrorists – then take pointlessly excessive measures to ‘remedy’ it. So here you are, you irrelevant fucking buffoon, hoist by your own fucking petard! Except we wouldn’t put it past you to deliberately ‘forget’ your ID so you can write some shit about bureaucracy gone mad for the Daily Mail! Who knows how that amnesiac semolina slosh you call a fucking brain works?