Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

All those pornos with step-siblings really downplay how much they made you play Mario Kart with the shitty controller.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

The Wagner group of mercenaries warring in Ukraine sounds horrific. Still, at least he didn’t go the predictable West End musicals route like most X-Factor rejects.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Imagine how much better the world would be if Archduke Franz Ferdinand had stayed home that day. We’d never have had to hear that shitty band.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Hold on. Have these party bangers been certified?

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Clouds have various names: cumulonimbus, cirrostratus, arcus and ‘rain-producing sun-blocking bastards’, which is a blanket name for all of them.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You ask your boiler repair guy for a quote and he says ‘For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men,’ which is fair enough.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

The invention of music can be traced directly to the birth of James Music, a child whose screams sounded like a contrabass oboe.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

We are currently experiencing high call volumes because people just fucking love talking to our operators. Once they’re on the line they don’t want to get off. It’s their best call ever.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

2019: election. 2020: last-minute Covid cancellation. 2021: Partygate. 2022: economic clusterfuck and possible election. Have the Tories considered not fucking up Christmas every fucking year?

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

A handy hack for getting free food at the drive-thru is to threaten the cashier with a mace.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

There’s only one fair way to choose a new prime minister. Power weapons. Facility. No Oddjob.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

The great thing about Scottish football is it doesn’t matter who wins, they’re all shite.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... John twatting Cleese

AWAKING, an empty vodka bottle in one hand, I find myself in a large, cathedral-like edifice festooned with flowers and comely maidens. 

In place of the altar is a great throne in which sits God Almighty himself, with Jesus on his right hand, and millling about are luminaries of history from Shakespeare to Newton to St Thomas Aquinas.

I pay my respects to God and admit that, between him and me, I had always thought the Heaven stuff was nonsense. Upon which he smirks, tears off his fake beard and reveals himself to be the Archbishop of Durham who set up this whole prank with a bunch of hard-up actors.

Feeling somewhat vindicated in my original thoughts, I return to my own palace to take breakfast and peruse the periodicals. Therein I read that Jacob Rees-Mogg has blamed the BBC for making a tenuous, partisan connection between the financial crisis and Kwasi Kwarteng’s mini-budget.

Yeah. Sure, you languid, pinstripe streak of oily fuck, like that foul smell in the room has nothing to do with the gigantic shit the elephant has just taken! And that pain you’ve just experienced in the bollocks is completely disconnected to the fucking boot that’s just connected hard and fast with them! Seriously, Tim Loathsome-But-Dim, you can have a fucking pop at the BBC all you like but you cancel the fucking licence fee and you’ll be cancelling one of your biggest enablers, you and the rest of your improperly interrogated shower of disastrous cunts!

The pop star MIA has been waxing sceptic about the take-up of vaccine by the ‘sheeple’ of Britain. ‘People fear me for some reason,’ she says.

Holy Jesus the Son of God, talk about self-aggrandisement passing for fucking critical self-analysis! No one ‘fears’ you, they pity you for appointing your fucking arse your official mouthpiece! Doggerel-spouting, disease-spreading morons like you shouldn’t be getting column inches in the fucking Guardian. You should be made to parade around in a smock, ringing a bill at regular intervals with a wooden plaque round your neck with FUCKWIT painted on it!

In a week of political and economic turmoil, the Daily Mail turned its attention to the prospect that Camilla, the Queen Consort, might be prevented from wearing a crown bearing the 105 carat Koh-i-Noor diamond because of ‘political sensitivities’.

Seriously? And there’s the rest of the fucking press chuntering morbidly on about Truss and Kwarteng drowning the fucking economy with their libertarian incompetence? This is the real news! Seriously, you can’t ignore it, you fuckers! You’re up to your tits in this! You cheered on this mini-budget like it was the fucking Blackshirts! This is on you! And no amount of bleating about cancel culture’s gonna distract your readers from noticing their fucking skyrocketing mortgages! Fucking own it, you spunkwipes!

Finally, it seems John Cleese is to have his own show on GB News. He appeared on the BBC to discuss that which he would not be allowed to say on the BBC.

See, John, Minister of Silly Cunts, there are things that you’re not allowed to say in certain places. My clerks, for instance, only this week drew up a list of words they advise me not to use during Royal funerals, include ‘fucker’, ‘prick’, ‘arsehole’ and ‘cuntflake’. A bit stifling but fair enough, suggestions fucking noted. What are these things you want to say but you can’t, eh? Every child under five should be forced to own a golliwog? We shouldn’t be afraid to mock people who stammer, it might help them buck their ideas up? That London isn’t preserved exactly as it was in 1953 is Political Correctness Gone Mad? What, you ghastly, irrelevant old fucking fool? It’s as well you don’t get to say these things because they reveal you as the senile, xenophobic, fossilised twat that you are! Tell you what, Monty Python would have had a fucking field day with you!