Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

The anti-growth coalition don’t want you to buy this pro penis extender, which makes it your duty as a Tory.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

A self-help book advised you to ‘think the unthinkable’, so you’re imagining Barry from EastEnders getting off with Ana de Armas on the night bus.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Solar power, wind power, but is there no way Britain can wrest power from constant pissing rain?

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You always wanted to be part of the one per cent and now you are! Because you have coeliac disease.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

If they’re doing Mario and Lego movies surely Henry Hoover’s next. His fictional universe is so rich.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Reassure yourself that marriage isn’t for everyone – only the gorgeous with winning personalities worthy of mating for life.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

You needed something to do in the evenings, so you’ve joined your local am-porn society and got a decent role in their Christmas staging of Miss Adventures Of Megaboob Manor.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Champagne for my real friends, real pain for my sham friends. And half a lager for Nick, he’s driving.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Drum yes, but no bass thanks. I’m allergic.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

A baby bird becomes attached to the first thing it sees after hatching. Like come on, shop around.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Based on your purchase of Parenting For Dummies you may also like Cooking for Bastards; Driving for Fuckwits; Shopping for Twats.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

The quarterly budgets are due next week, and you’re struggling to spin ‘replace photocopier broken when fucked on during rowdy afterhours party’ into ‘upgrade of office hardware’.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... growth growth bloody growth

WAKING in my own bed, I am startled to discover I lie beside a slumbering horse. 

I rack my brains, still foggy from the previous evening’s episcopal revelries, hoping that in my cups I did not perform some act contrary to the prohibitions of Leviticus 18:23.

Pulling back the sheets, however, I realise that the horse is not sleeping but dead and not a full animal but just a head. Evidently a prank pulled by my house guest Cardinal Ravinelli, cineaste and trickster, following an animated discussion about the plausibility of The Godfather.

Carefully setting the horse’s head to one side, I repair to my kitchen to peruse the periodicals. Therein I read that Liz Truss has promised that her government’s policy will be ‘Growth, growth, growth’.

St Paul’s cuntflake on the road to Damascus, with fucking what? What are we gonna subsist on in the Land of Fuck All you’re laughingly presiding over? What will people eat? Their unpayable energy bills, smeared with mud? The minced remains of frozen pensioners? Growth!? You are a fucking growth! A fucking malignant lump on the neck of the body politic! The only thing that’s growing under you is Labour’s lead in the polls, and given the sorry, spineless sack of button-eyed suet they’re led by, that’s fucking saying something!

Laura Kuenssberg interviewed the Prime Minister last Sunday, in which she expressed concerns about the ‘optics’ of a mini-budget which transferred large sums of money from the poor to the rich.

Wank a fucking wombat dry, ‘optics’? Everything’s cosmetic with you cunts, isn’t it? It’s not a mirage, or a piece of modern street theatre, or a David Blaine magic trick, it fucking is what it fucking is! ‘Optics’ my grey arse! You’re so fucking docile, Kuenssberg! Afraid if you say the wrong thing you might not get invited to the Spectator garden party? You’re half a yard up the Tories’ arse! And if you shone a fucking torch, you’d see Fiona Bruce wedged further up the sphincter!

Jeremy Clarkson has been ordered him to close down the cafe at his Oxfordshire farm, Diddly Squat, on the grounds that it is ‘incompatible with its open countryside location’.

You know, as I often remind my flock, in Luke 12:24 we read, ‘Consider the ravens’. Well, fuck the ravens for the time being. Consider Jeremy Clarkson. Every morning, he gets up, opens a car magazine and has a wank, irons his jeans, puts on his green wellies, takes a deep breath and thinks to himself, ‘How can I strive to my utmost to be an absolute prick today?’ Calling your fucking farm ‘Diddly Squat’ was reason enough for you to be run out on a rail and dumped in the first available ditch! You and your general presence in Oxfordshire are as compatible with the open countryside location as an open-cast uranium mine!

Finally, the Mail group is being sued by a group including Prince Harry, Elton John, Sadie Frost and Doreen Lawrence, for serious illegal newsgathering including allegations of burglaries and landline tapping.

Well, brothers and sisters, break out the gospel and join me in a chorus of ‘Oh Happy Day’! They’re gonna get sunk like the Belgrano, so just rejoice! The worst, meanest, Nazi-cheering, self-righteous, blustering, pinched-faced, hypocritical, censorious, upskirting, racist, downright fucking evil rag in Britain, not worth the shit you’d use it to wipe from your arse in a emergency, could be destroyed! You’ve conspired on a daily basis to keep us in our place through a toxic mix of petty spite, bullying paranoia and grovelling sycophancy! And now you’re going to be exposed for the criminals that you are and Paul Dacre will end his days as a prisoner’s bride!