Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

When Conan the Barbarian was asked ‘what is best in life?’ and he replied ‘to crush your enemies, to see them driven before you and to hear the lamentations of their women’ when the correct answer was Mars Milkshake.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Ah, hot weather. So lovely in theory.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Weird to think that the singer from Hanson’s first gig was probably a Hanson gig. Weird and shameful.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Now he’s gone, it’s clear that Boris Johnson’s greatest achievement was giving homeworkers the phrase ‘go to the fridge and hack off a piece of cheese’ as a euphemism for wanking.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

There’s an alternate universe where AltaVista became the dominant search engine and people are going about telling each other to ‘Vista it’.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

As a city dweller, you have nothing but contempt for fancy country folk who don’t know how to lasso an Uber or what hours they muck out the Northern Line.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Imagine trying to explain cricket to a foreigner! Especially a foreigner from Australia who already knows the rules, you condescending prick!

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Your worst nightmare comes true at the school fete this week when you reach deep into the bran tub and another hand grasps yours.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

It’s ridiculous how many songs Snoop Dogg resorts to spelling his own name in. You could use it as an educational tool for pre-school kids if he didn’t spell it wrong.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

The footballers are decent at Euro 22 but the hooligans are shit. Shout ‘the referee’s got a bucket fanny’ or you’re disrespecting the game.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Evil clowns but still doing the same clown shit. Evil custard pies and tiny evil backfiring cars and an evil bungling wallpapering routine.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Celebrity news: that Geordie who punched a horse has moved in with cat bin woman. Her previous boyfriend, the owner of Fenton the dog, is furious.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury says... farewell to that arsehole Boris Johnson

I AWAKE dangling from a spire atop Westminster Abbey by the belt loop of my trousers, my cassock over my head, my garters visible to all below as I slowly rotate. 

I ruminate regretfully on my act of Christian charity in agreeing to take a job-lot of surplus altar wine off the hands of my Catholic counterpart. Winched away by helicopter, I reflect on the momentous event which prompted events – the resignation of Boris Johnson.

I fucking tell you, one of my clerics passed me a note with the news during my sermon at Morning Service. I read it, screamed ‘MOTHER MARY’S FANNY, THAT’S THE WAY TO START A FUCKING DAY!’, grabbed a bottle of Bollinger from a chilled bucket and chugged the cunt in one go! The only pity is they didn’t send blokes to Downing Street with a fucking rail to run him down to Victoria Embankment and dump him like a sack of crap in the Thames! The smirking, mis-shapen, revolting, Buntered-up lump of white elephant shite!

Of course the question now is who will replace Mr Johnson. The moderate Tom Tungenhat? The unknown quantity that is Ben Wallace? Liz Truss, the neo-Thatcherite? Penny Mordaunt? Or perhaps Steve Baker?

Who cares? Seriously, who gives a spunking gorilla’s toss? They’re all fucking Tories! Ergo they’re all twats! When you apply to join the party, you’re sent a form which says in bold letters ARE YOU A TWAT? If you tick ‘Yes’, come right on in, sit down on the front bench, cabinet places available, no talent required. If you tick ‘No’, fuck off and join the Lib Dems. It’s like Thora Hird once said: ‘You can be a cunt but not a Tory, but you can’t be a Tory and not a cunt.’

The Daily Mail and Daily Express have expressed regret at Mr Johnson’s departure. The Express thanked him for making Britain free again, while the Mail cried aloud in its headline ‘What The Hell Have They Done?’

And now Starmer’s off the fucking hook, Paul Dacre must be unleashing the Vagina Monologue to end all Vagina Monologues! Dearie me, Mail and Express readers, don’t let the stress of it all make you keel over off your golf club bar stools and die of a heart attack! Too late: every fucking day, a hundred or so respectable Nazi-sympathising Mail readers kick the bucket due to gin and blood pressure, and its sales sink further into the shitter of irrelevancy! Fewer and fewer people give a fuck about Myra Hindley or the 1970s union barons! You are nearing fucking extinction and it can’t come soon enough!

Finally, this week saw the notable rise of Nadhim Zahawi, appointed by Boris Johnson as new Chancellor of the Exchequer only to lead a delegation the following day urging the prime minister to resign immediately.

He’s a rancid, self-serving, greasy toad in human shape but the fucking balls on him, eh? Giant, brass fucking balls visible from fucking space! Take a job and then turn right round and tell your boss to go jump in the sea! Seriously, you should donate them to the fucking church after you die. Those balls of yours clanging together in the bell tower of Westminster Abbey would drown out the Red fucking Arrows!