Your astrological week ahead for September 19th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

[overexcited extra in November Rain video, waiting for cue] “I think in a sudden heavy rain situation like this my character would definitely vault into the cake.”

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Men drink too much and should meet for coffee instead. It descends into necking pint after pint of cappuccino. Jordan comes out with a tray of expressos and everyone cheers. Fat Darren does one straight into his eyeball.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s not the moon.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

No wonder people say ‘I don’t want to get into a pissing competition’. There’s so many variables. Colour, stream, maximum time, artistic expression. Exhausting.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

I was using alcohol as a crutch. And that’s how I broke the other leg.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You can’t take it with you. That supermarket trolley. Put it back.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

“Why do we never pack on the PDA any more?” “Don’t blame me. I can’t remember the last time you showed off your curves or put on a leggy display.”

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Love is patient. Love is kind. Except the Love who’s the lead singer of Hole.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

No, my nan doesn’t like sweets, she does oil paintings with a lunchtime group. You must have misheard when I said she keeps offering me worthless originals.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

I brought some homemade blondies. All right, I’ll stop calling my children that.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Cruel to taunt Sydney Sweeney with ‘this is what a woman in sports looks like,’ knowing she cannot even run because of her grossly oversized breasts.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

“Hi, is that the Samaritans? Can you give me the number of the Good Samaritans?”

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Hull have made a cracking start to the Premier league, eh? By Celine Dion

I STEP onto that Paris stage like the ultimate diva. Before me stand thousands of fans ready for the night of their lives, and I’ll give it to them. But my mind is with the Tigers. 

Because as I perform my ten-night residency at La Défense Arena, thrilling them with classics like My Heart Will Go On, Courage, and Tout l’or des hommes, what I’m thinking can’t be put into song. Namely that Hull City have roared out of the gates this season.

Come on. Nobody was expecting that. Every pre-season had them down for relegation, and they’ve got eight points from four games? Unbeaten in the league, occupying a Champion’s League place, after playing three of the so-called top six?

And all with Ollie McBurnie up front, or ‘the Factor 50 Falcao’ as I call him. Scotland were f**king mental not to take him to the World Cup, and you can quote me on that.

The audience I’ve built over so many years, and that I love, and is always there for me? Not interested. I flew out Rory the Tiger to act as my hype man, bringing East Yorkshire to the city of lights, and they were indifferent to his presence. They don’t understand.

It won’t stop me. I’m the star here. So if I sing Mauled By The Tigers, together with that cute little claw movement, they will listen. If I decide, before introducing the ballad section, to rhapsodise about Ryan Giles’s delivery from wide areas, that’s up to me.

I’ll do the hits, but I’ve also got an epic operatic number about Regan Slater’s willing midfield runs and the twinkling toes of Mohamed Belloumi. And I think they’ll find it as intensely moving as I do.

When this season began, nobody gave Hull a chance. They said they’d go down like the cruise liner that hit the iceberg that time, I forget its name. But with big Bosnian Sergej Jakirović’s hand on the tiller, they’re playing a shrewd counter-attacking game.

They are my heart. And near, or far, wherever they are, you know that my heart will go on. To League One, if they survive this season then wildly overspend the next and suffer double relegation.