Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Give me some of that fucking bread, quoth the raven.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

‘I treat this house like a hotel!’ you bellow at your teenage son, before charging him £17 to uncork a bottle of wine.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

What happens to the food fads of yesteryear? Whither sun-dried tomatoes today?

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Stars are balls of gas are they? Bullshit. They’re not balls of anything. They’re pointy.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

What about a compromise, Wales? You can have your own language but it has to be a proper one?

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

It’s a surprise ‘late arrival’ in the Love Island villa this week, film director Tim Burton.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Elon Musk has purchased Libra for $33 billion and plans to charge you $12 a month for being a well-balanced extrovert. Sagittarius are hiring.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

The movie Frozen teaches girls they shouldnt settle for the first man that comes along. They should wait for the second.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Your new face tattoo of your CV is the perfect career-oriented Gen Z-Boomer compromise. ‘Hobbies and Interests’ are on the back of your neck.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

‘You tuber,’ you whisper, to a potato.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

The cost of living crisis is so bad it’s two to a scarf.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Ants can lift up to twenty times their bodyweight, which is still absolutely fuck all.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that grasping, duplicitous arsehole Matt Hancock

SEATED in the first class compartment of a train from London to Brighton, I snort, wonder when it will deign to set off, and take a restorative draught of whiskey. 

Two hours later the train is still yet to depart and I resort to bourbon. Another four hours and I’m forced to poteen. Summoning a conductor, I demand an explanation for the delay and am told the train has been to Brighton and back three times while I was ‘blacked out’.

Decrying the growing mendacity of our public servants, I give up and return home where I peruse the periodicals and learn that Rishi Sunak has put down Keir Starmer by reminding him that he served in Jeremy Corbyn’s cabinet.

Jesus’s tattered wanksock on a staff, is that all you’ve fucking got, you half-mast trousered tit? Jeremy fucking Corbyn? No one outside of your bubble of Westminster pantswetters even remembers who he is! Beardy bloke who said he was going to nationalise sausages, oh yeah, him! You might as well bang on about fucking Arthur Scargill! Perhaps think about something less pointlessly fucking puerile like ‘My Dad can piss up further up a wall than your Dad’ because if all you can fling back is ‘Jeremy Corbyn’ then Suella Braverman will be in Downing Street by Christmas!

It seems that Matt Hancock is in Australia to appear on entertainment show I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here! His party has suspended the whip as a result.

You grossly self-overestimating little prick, of the name that launched a thousand fucking anagrams, appearing on this is a far greater offence in public office than sending thousands of people to their deaths during COVID. First, you’re no ‘celebrity’. No-one celebrates you. If the show’s name were I’m A Cunt… Get Me Out Of Here! you’d be a natural. Second, if you don’t think you’re going to be subsisting on cancerous kangaroo cock marinated in diseased wallaby piss on a nightly basis, you’re a deluded bellend. And that’s just the fucking caterers. You wait for the fucking challenges!

‘One In Six Of Us Born Overseas’, ran a Daily Mail headline this week.

Yeah? So? Beyond your core readership of 95-year-old fascists reading this in their retirement homes in fucking Spain, who fucking cares? You dicks get madder and madder with each passing edition. You’re about a fortnight away from running ‘BLOODY FOREIGNERS’ as a headline and exclusive fucking story. At least those one in six pay their fucking taxes here, unlike Viscount Rothermere, your non-dom tax-evading twat of an owner!

Finally, Home Office Minister Chris Philp has complained of the ‘cheek’ of migrants suffering in squalid conditions at such centres as Manston while waiting to be processed.

Just imagine. I bet they’ve got Netflix, Corby trouser presses, tea and coffee making facilities, the fucking lot. Laughing it up at the taxpayer’s expense. Though it’s not like we Brits haven’t done our fucking bit, eh? Waging wars in Iraq and Afghanistan to trigger a refugee crisis and this is the thanks we get? Soon enough, after your mates Liz and Kwasi’s epic bed-shitting, it’ll be Brits taking to their dinghies in search of a better life overseas and they’d better hope they’re treated a fuck sight better than we’re treating migrants! ‘Cheek’! That’s rich coming from a giant left arsecheek of a human being like you, Philp!