Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

If crabs can only go sideways how do they make love? Handjobs are possible, just, but surely not full penetration.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You spotted 16 Easter eggs in the new Dr Strange movie, but more than 460,000 in Hop. Your move, Marvel.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

What a tangled web we weave when we tell one friend you can’t come out to the pub tonight because you’re tired, and another friend that it’s because you can’t be arsed.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Fruit machines are so named because originally the prizes were fruit. You’d put in a grape and hope to come away with a punnet of strawberries or the jackpot of a nice, ripe rock melon.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

When you have a nosebleed, it’s important to lean your head back. Sorry, forwards. No – back. You know what, just keep it normal level?

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

In this hyperconnected, information-rich world there are only two eternal mysteries: who the support is and what time the headline act’s on.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Thank fuck for monkeypox, a disease that actually sounds like a disease. Bring back diseases that sound like they could fuck you up.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Don’t worry about saving holiday time for summer. You’re likely to get laid off soon then you can spend three whole months in Barbados, leaving whenever you want.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Too late you notice the small wooden sign in a cheerfully rustic typeface that says ‘If you didn’t wanna fuck, you shouldna got in the hot tub!’

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Condolences if you lost out in the cryptocurrency crash. But, seeing as cryptocurrency is imaginary, why not simply imagine it’s worth loads?

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

You attach a bell to your cat’s collar to stop it killing birds. It’s a 28in cast-iron church bell weighing 400lbs. It’s worked.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th 

You never hear of children being named Edward the Confessor any more.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Platinum Party at the pissing Palace

I WAKE atop a barge of landfill en-route to Southend, having leapt from Westminster Bridge into the Thames in a dare with the Chief Rabbi after a convivial evening. 

Dusting down my cassock, I invoke my religious authority to order the boat’s captain to change course and am soon back at my quarters. Switching on my wireless I learn that performers at the upcoming Platinum Party at the Palace include Queen, Diana Ross, Duran Duran, and Eurovision runner-up Sam Ryder.

Jesus H Cockstick, what a fucking farrago of grovelling geriatrics and worldbeating mediocrity this is gonna be! I’d rather eat my left fucking foot than sit through this spangly shower of shite! The only thing that’d made it worse is fucking Paul McCartney singing 1,600 fucking choruses of Hey Jude until 4.30am but even so, what kind of a docile cabbagebrain is gonna extract a morsel of fucking entertainment from this line-up from Bleeding Obvious Hell? I bet the fucking Queen would rather stare at fucking horses for six hours, and so would fucking I!

Policing minister Kit Malthouse has urged the UK constabulary to have no mercy on those caught shoplifting due to the cost of living crisis, stating that it is ‘old fashioned’ to believe that there is any link between food poverty and stealing food.

And here he fucking comes, trundling out like a fucking fat man in a Dickens novel, the unquestioned winner of Cunt Of The Week. Tell you what, though, while we’re dishing out fucking tips to the poor, here’s one – kill and roast a fucking Tory MP and have enough to feed a family of five for a fucking month! And it wouldn’t even cost you 30p because every last one of these fuckers is completely worthless! 

As part of the Platinum Jubilee celebrations, eight towns are elevated to the status of cities – among them, Dunfermline, Wrexham and Milton Keynes, a town I once visited in my official capacity.

I’ll fucking say now what I told the ‘people’ of fucking Milton Keynes in my address then: “You shouldn’t even be a town, let along a fucking city. Move somewhere real, with real fucking cows, you sallow, soulless bunch of fucking arseholes! The state of you! You couldn’t even create your own fucking football team, you had to nick one. I don’t care how many pieces of fucking public art, you’ve got – and they’re all shit, by the way – I would rather live inside a giant cowpat in a field in Dewsbury than in the piss-ugly, plastic flytipped layby that is Milton Keynes! Don’t you turn my mic off, you officious little Nazi prick!”

Finally, it seems that the London Metropolitan Police have concluded their careful and thorough investigation into the Partygate scandal, after many weeks and at a cost of £460,000.

Fuck me with a ceremonial curly stick, how fucking much? What were you doing, making paper planes out of £20 notes and lobbing them out the windows? I’d have done it for £100,000, verdict as follows after careful and thorough consideration: Guilty As Fuck, every last fucking one of them, with the Blonde Fatberg sent down for life as the fucking ringleader! But then, this is the fucking Met who if they’re not randomly arresting black people or beating up women are a bunch of shiftless, clueless, hopeless fucking cunts!