Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Phillip Schofield is an Aries and Holly Willoughby is an Aquarius. Those queue-jumping, piss-on-the-little-people Zodiac signs can fuck right off.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

The difference between Ed Sheeran and an Ed Sheeran tribute act is negligible.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

You’ve just put up your 25th video on YouTube complaining about black hobbits. That’s shown everyone who said you’d never amount to anything.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Famous Cancerians include Natalie Wood, drowned in a mysterious yachting accident, and Lord Mountbatten, blown up by the IRA on his boat. You and Harry Styles should stay on land.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

If only you could eat canapes for every meal, instead of twice a year: once at the wedding of someone you don’t care about and once at an event your work puts on expounding the virtues of voluntary redundancy.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

‘Surely once you’re up Shit Creek you don’t need a paddle, because you can just ride the flow of urine to the open sea?’ argues Liz Truss, with her trademark insight and logic.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

It takes 10,000 hours of practise to become an expert at something. Unfortunately you chose the kazoo.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

God, it hurts being ripped off by your coke dealer. I mean the one guy you thought you could trust, you know?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

The Royal Mint has revealed the new pound coins with Barry Chuckle on the front side and Paul Chuckle on the back, with the motto ‘Ad me, ad te’.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

You’ve decided to splurge on one of those fancy projectors. Now all your problems are Remainers’ fault.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

‘Self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting,’ said Shakespeare. Pull that out next time you’re caught wanking in front of Emily in Paris.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Capitalism: a political system for dogs, run by cats.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that tuneless bastard Ian Brown

I AWAKE on my canal break in the Norfolk Broads atop a sunken narrowboat, a litre bottle of overproof rum by my side and effluent pouring into my mouth from a rusty pipe. 

Glad to be roused from a petrifying nightmare in which the country had been forcibly taken over by a zombie Thatcher risen from the grave, I commandeer a passing vessel and flick through their periodicals.

Therein, I read that Ian Brown, former Stone Roses vocalist, is on tour performing live vocals to backing tracks of his songs at a mere £40 per ticket.

Shit my cock, 40 fucking notes to watch you gimping around onstage massacring your own tunes with the deadly weapon of your shittier-than-shit vocals? Without even musicians to cover up the fucking embarrassment of your abject, chronic tunelessness? I mean, face it, Bez on maracas in the Happy Mondays made a more worthwhile contribution to the music than you did to the fucking Roses! Tell you what, pal, you object to wearing fucking masks but if I were I’d be wearing a fucking mask every time I stepped out the door, you hopeless simian cunt!

Football pundit Mark Lawrenson has told the Mail that the reason he was sacked from the BBC was because he was ’65, white and male’. ‘All this woke stuff drives me bonkers,’ he added.

Ah, yes, the white male football pundit, practically an extinct species these days. I can only think about a fucking hundred off the top of my head. Ah, to be white and male, you can be sent to prison for that these days? You fucking should be for being the most joyless, droning, hangdog, wet-weather, turgid, tediously self-satisfied, boring uncle of a twat ever to be handed a fucking microphone with jokes that fell like wet farts in a crowded lift! Think all that might have had something to do with it rather than you not being a lesbian!

I was corrected by one of my parishioners for referring to King Charles as Prince Charles during a sermon. I admonished her from the pulpit for I cannot abide rudeness, but this little incident certainly illustrates the challenge of accepting his new title.

Face it, the Arseache Formerly Known As Prince, you can lay this ‘King’ stuff on us but none of us are fucking buying it! You could wear your crown all day every day, opening a swimming baths or massacring grouse or tucking into a swan sandwich but you’ll always be Prince Charles to us, a ruddy-faced, jug-eared joke of a man who inherited his mother’s fucking job! King Charles, my sacred arse! 

Finally, it seems that Labour have extended their lead over the Conservatives to 33 per cent, thanks to Prime Minister Liz Truss sticking by her plans to offer tax incentives to the rich rather than handouts to the poor.

Fuck me with the rod of Moses, the rate your popularity’s plummeting and the pound with it, the only bit of England retained by the fucking Tories is gonna be a small divot in Gloucestershire! You don’t belong in Number 10, you belong in some sort of institution! Don’t get me wrong, it’s hilarious watching you pilot the Conservative Party into the side of a mountain and no one daring to get out of their fucking seats and do something about it, but Joan of Arc’s tampon on a shitty stick, a wheelbarrow of nuclear fucking waste would make a better Prime Minister than you!