Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Cats are one of the few creatures that always land on their feet, even after being convicted of indecency in a public place.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

For selfless stewards of the countryside, farmers sure keep the environs of their houses like a fucking shit-tip.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

The world record for clowns in a car is 23. The world record for cars in a clown is sealed by the coroner.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You still harbour a sneaking suspicion that you’re inexplicably big in Japan.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Every cloud has a secret inner lining where it keeps a handgun, just in case skydivers get too close.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

It’s a thankless job being a bouncer. No one ever comes back and says ‘Good call not letting me in last night. I was far too hammered. And fair enough, that shirt was casual.’

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

It’s hip to be square? Shame your body is an irregular octahedron then, for that and other reasons.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Imagine if you had tickets for Elton John and it got cancelled. You don’t have to go out and you’re getting 600 quid. It’d be the greatest night of your life.

Sagittarius, November 23nd–December 21st

You’ve decided your daughter is the right age for her first smartphone. Granted she’s only four but she keeps bugging you when you’re on yours.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

A dog is for life. A Staffordshire bull terrier is for life without parole.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

The fact that the phrase ‘Brazilian bum-lift’ only ever appears after the word ‘botched’ is surely telling.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

And finally tonight’s closing drug prices: cocaine up six per cent after an end-of-market rally, heroin continuing to fall as Taliban releases reserves, cannabis hits its cap.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Matt Le Knobhead Tissier

SWITCHING off my wireless set following the latest Thought For The Day, I partake of a light breakfast of grilled kippers and green tea before turning to the newspaper.

Therein, I read that culture secretary Nadine Dorries, herself a celebrated novelist, is to press on with plans to sell off Channel 4.

I’ll tell you my fucking thought for the day – appointing a thick, malignant, besotted, insensate fucking souse like Dorries as culture secretary is straight-up Batman-villain trolling on Johnson’s part! Face it, you pitiful pool of pigshit poured into a fucking dress, the only reason you want to sell off Channel 4 is because Krishnan Guru-Murthy humiliated you in an interview, using the cunning journalist’s trick of allowing you to open your mouth and fucking talk! Exposing to the country that you’re not fit to be in charge of your own fucking hair, let alone a fucking ministry! Culture! Fuck my dog!

Matthew Le Tissier, a mercurial midfielder with twinkling technical skills a whole England side could have been built around, has stepped down as ambassador for Southampton FC following a tweet in which he cast doubt on reports of Russian war crimes in Ukraine.

As I said in yesterday’s sermon, it just shows how plagued we are by slack-jawed, gullible, scrolling shit-for-wits we are in this country when those two short fucking planks Matthew Le Tissier and the muscleheaded moron from Right Said Fred are considered more credible than actual fucking experts rather than up their own, pig-ignorant, conspiracist arses! Let us pray that these ‘do your own research’ idiots don’t fall in with some fucking cult that commands them all to go throw themselves in the North Sea with kettlebells tied round their fucking necks, because that certainly wouldn’t represent a giant evolutionary stride for humanity would it? Matthew Le Tissier? Matthew Le Cuntier, more like! We now turn to hymn number 143!

Finally, it seems that Prince Charles, with whom I have had many a face-to-face meeting in my church duties over the years, was in the habit of taking advice from Jimmy Savile, regarding the flamboyant disc jockey as a repository of common sense and a conduit to the mindset of ordinary working people.

It says something that your mother hates you, your father thinks you’re an embarrassing fucking imbecile, your next oldest brother’s so obviously a fucking sleazeball that no way are you going to look to him for moral guidance so you resort to Jimmy Saville! Who else did you fucking consult? Fred West for patio tips? At least everyone else who dealt with the vile scrotum knew what kind of a fucking human being he was, they just didn’t care enough to do anything about it. You actually met him, looked at him, talked to him and thought he was a fucking good bloke! This officially makes you Britain’s Stupidest Cunt, you know that? A man too stupid to know how to put on a fucking crown without a valet’s assistance!