Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

He was ‘like a dog with a bone’? Just one? So you’re saying he was like some invertebrate dog jelly?

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Imagine going on Wife Swap and all you get is another wife.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

If anyone tries to make you dig your own grave, refuse. What are they going to do, kill you? Without a grave to put you in? Hardly.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

They say cocks come in all shapes and sizes but that’s not true. No-one’s ever seen one the shape and size of the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Throwing a party? Divide rooms by subscription streaming services. Now guests can bang on about the amazing show they’ve just binged with another knobhead who’s seen it.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Ringo Starr wasn’t even the best drummer in The Who.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

You open a flat-roofed gastropub offering artisanal kickings, and punters queue up to get their balls stamped on by a pop-up chap-hop producer who sets his cockapoo on them.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

‘I shot the sheriff but I didn’t shoot the deputy’ has to be the worst plea for mitigation ever entered.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Chaos theory and the Butterfly effect means you getting hammered on Thursday caused you to not turn up to work on Friday, which probably caused an earthquake in Peru or something, I don’t fucking know.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

When will strip clubs give moobs a chance?

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Wine on beer makes you feel queer, you explain to your wife, which is how you fell into a four-way with Gavin, Josh and Brendan last night.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Halloween costumes should be scary. Fuck off with that topical shit. You’re not a satirical cartoon in the Guardian.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the door hitting Liz Truss's arse on the way out

WAKING in my own bed, head clear, having turned in at 10pm, the chirruping of the birds a serene herald to a most clement morning, I an glad of my decision to have a ‘dry night’. 

After all, excreting my liver the previous afternoon seemed a sign from the Almighty that I have been overdoing it a little. I ring for a clerk to free me from the straitjacket I ordered him to place me in last night, for which he still nurses a black eye.

Released, I repair to breakfast for grilled kippers, grapefruit, and, since it is such a lovely morning, a jeroboam of absinthe. Perusing the periodicals, I see that Liz Truss has resigned as prime minister, since ‘given the situation’ she can no longer lead the government.

Jesus shitting out miracles, ‘given the situation’? You fucking were the situation, you fucking Cabbage Patch Randian! You and your idiotically zealous trickle-down mates! We’ll be floundering in the giant dump you took on the country for a decade! That wasn’t fucking trickle-down, that was an excremental tsunami! Oh, and cheers for the apology, by the way – though your twisted, pop-eyed robo-expression made it clear you thought we should be apologising to you! Fuck off further and faster than anyone has ever fucked off before! And maybe take up a hobby like learning to fucking speak!

Speculation is rife that Boris Johnson could return to Downing Street, with pundits and political colleagues minded to think that he is the right man for the job.

You are shitting me. You are shitting me from a great fucking height into an ocean of effluent! He couldn’t have been a more gapingly inappropriate choice if he’d wanked on the dispatch box during PMQs! Even then, you’d have said, ‘oh well, Boris will be Boris!’ Did any of you fish-eyed twats pay any attention to the things he actually said and did, or are you completely lost in some sort of collective Tory stupor? You do realise that, beyond your convulsive little psychodrama there’s a place called the ‘country’ where Boris Johnson’s as popular as a serial puppy strangler? I mean, fuck it, go ahead, whatever kills you bunch of wankers fastest is fucking fine by me!

Matty Healy of The 1975 went viral last week when he asked an Irish fan her name at an album signing. When she replied ‘Dervla’ he replied ‘What? That sounds like something you move gravel with.’

You know, ‘Matty’, and there’s a name that’s not remotely twatty, in my line of work, you get to meet a lot of people, and I’ve developed what’s known as ‘prickdar’. I can tell an entitled, rude, nasty, selfish little prick pretty much from the moment they open their mouth. And the needle on my prickdar dial practically snapped off within 0.0000002 seconds of watching this clip. You need to take a long, hard shit and then dunk your fucking head in the bowl for an hour!

Finally, Channel 4 newsreader Krishnan Guru-Murthy has been relieved of his duties for a week after a clip emerged of him calling Conservative MP Steve Baker the C-word.

Fuck’s sake, it is the solemn duty of a political broadcaster to sift away the dross of the political discourse – the baseless speculation, misinformation and plain untruth – to seek out, scrupulously and with laser precision, the objective, indisputable truth and to speak that indisputable truth to power. And the indisputable truth is that Steve Baker is a cunt! Everyone knows that! Even his fucking family know that! Snap him like a stick of rock and the word ‘CUNT’ would be running right through him! Others abide our question, Baker, thou art a cunt! So much so that you’ll probably be leader after next of the fucking Conservative party!