Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

This heat is truly unbearable. Thank God you’re on holiday in Portugal next week.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Weird that going to the office is described as the ‘rat race’ because an actual rat race would be far more entertaining.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Images from the James Webb Space Telescope mean we can now provide a horoscope from 16.2 billion years ago. And it’s ‘A chance encounter could lead to financial success, but beware of false promises.’

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

A bird in the hand is worth two on Tinder.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

In the critically-panned Welsh remake of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Nerys Bueller takes the day off to pull a wheeled suitcase round Llandrindod Wells.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Did Viking nans have little commemorative plates of King Harald up on their walls?

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

A misunderstanding leads you to go crabbing off Weymouth seafront by dangling your genitals in the sea, with fantastic results.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Those hooks at the side of swimming baths are to pull kids off when the crowd is jeering.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

It’s lucky Tamagotchis scream at a level inaudible to humans, because they’re in constant agony.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Town names that have ‘cum’ in the middle are home to aristocratic sex rings. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

It would be cool if all shoes were named after the sound they make, like flip-flops. Boots would be called clumps or schlorps. High heels would be tick-ticks. Tap shoes would be unchanged.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Maybelline’s latest lipstick shade – Open Offal Wagon – hasn’t sold as well as you’d expect.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Suella sodding Braverman

RETURNING to consciousness naked and face-down in a pool of my own bodily fluids in the nave of St Paul’s with Pope Francis standing over me, I am pleased to realise this is all a bad dream. 

Awaking in reality I am relieved to find that I have merely voided my bowels, commonplace for gentlemen of my advanced years, though in this instance I was sharing a bed with my colleague the Bishop of Durham.

Hosing myself down, I leave him be and repair to my chambers where I learn that Suella Braverman garnered quite a few votes in her quest to lead the Conservative party.

Holy Christ on a chocolate fucking cockstick, how in fuck’s name did this ghastly, pigshit-thick, rampant streak of malice ever ascend to fucking attorney general? Who did she have to beat off to get the job? Was it down to her and a basket of root vegetables? Because the latter would be preferable to a deluded psychopath bent on us joining Belarus and Russia as the only countries deranged and evil enough to quit the European Court of Human Rights! What happened to the ‘wets’ in the Tory party, eh? Those flabby-faced lumps of roast beef in pinstripe? Where have they all fucked off to? These days, the Tory party’s as dry as the late St Rose of Lima’s fanny!

Alan Sugar has complained about coverage of Euro 22. Vexed that all of the commentators were women, he demanded that some male commentators be introduced into the mix.

Does this pube-faced sack of goose shit have no-one in his fucking life to tell him when you’re talking a barrel-load of elephant bollocks? Anyone? Because seriously, you hawing cretin, you need someone to stop you showing yourself up as a decrepit Triassic sexist every time you fucking speak. You’re good with machines, aren’t you? Invent an own-arse kicking machine that activates every time you talk out of it!

Keir Starmer was taken to task by Andrew Marr this week on LBC for abandoning the pledges he made when elected leader of the party.

Fuck me sideways, as I said to the actress, he flayed you alive! Stitched you up like a fucking 1930s football! Andrew Marr! That’s like being eaten alive by a fucking gerbil! But then you are a lying, unscrupulous floater in the bowl with no more business leading the Labour Party than Barbara fucking Cartland, so I guess you were easy meat even for a puny little herbivore like Marr!

Finally, it seems that Donald Trump may face criminal proceedings for his business activities and role in the Capitol Hill riots.

Yeah, well, I’ll need to live to be fucking 135 years old to see that happen, thanks to the dynamism of the American legal system, but with God’s grace I will and I’ll run down Westminster with my cassock over my head and my cock out the day it does! I hope they send you all the way down the river, you revolting, tiny-handed, pouting fatberg! I hope they make you share a cell with a seven-foot mountain gorilla with a sexual penchant for senile, narcissistic arseholes! You are the cunt to end all cunts: King Megacunt the Last!