Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You missed the two-minute silence this morning, so now you’re going to have to wait a whole extra year to reflect upon the service of our heroes.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Well, maybe not if it was called Gary.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

It’s a weird name, Sub-Zero Chiropractors, and the sign where a costumed man holds up a bloody spinal column is offputting, but it certainly is cheap.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You can tell if you’re dehydrated by tasting your urine. If it tastes delicious and you’d love more, you’re dehydrated.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

One-hit wonders walk among us, doing our insurance quotes, hiring us cars. DJ Pied Piper served you a pint last night and you never knew.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

How can Martin Scorsese be considered a great director when he had nothing to do with the making of your favourite film, Flubber? They should at least mention it.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

This is all going to end with Elon Musk exiled to Mars, isn’t it?

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Porn stars actually improvise most of their dialogue. ‘We’re like British actors in a Mike Leigh movie,’ Sienna Summer explained.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

If smaller dogs could ride bigger dogs, surely they’d be the dominant species on earth.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Lou Bega’s slept with Angela, Pamela, Sandra and Rita? Sounds like he’s scoring big with dinner ladies.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Missed connections: I was the driver of a Kia Ceed heading south on the M69, you were in a Volvo V40 going north. Our eyes met. Am I wrong to think we shared something special?

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You’re a water sign, like one of those yellow Caution: Wet Floor one in shopping centres.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the firing of tosspot Williamson

WAKING with a start, I find myself looking up at familiar rafters. I am in Westminster Abbey, lying on a slate altar, and a queue of luminaries are paying their respects. 

Dimly I recall breaking in here with Aled Jones when, much refreshed, we needed a lie-down and here I must have been found. I sit up with a start and break wind wetly as an prelate screams before fainting.

I proceed down the aisle, to cries of ‘He has risen’ which I make a note to later correct, and settle down to peruse my periodicals where I read Gavin Williamson has resigned after allegations he told an official to ‘slit his throat’. It is his third dismissal from office.

St Peter wanking up the road to Damascus, I shouldn’t fucking worry, pal! With this fucking government you’ll be back in a job in a fortnight, probably as the Anti-Bullying Czar. Just sweat it out in the fucking sin bin for a few days, cunts like you always land the right way up! And when I say cunt, I don’t mean your common or garden cunt. I mean a grade-A, porky-prime rugger-bugger of a cunt, an 800 pound alpha cunt, the cunt all the other cunts wish they could be! In the meanwhile, very temporarily, fuck right off, you cunt!

Bono has written his autobiography, described as an ‘honest and irreverent, intimate and profound’ memoir.

Has it? By one of your retinue who live rent-free up your arse ensuring you never spend a penny on bog roll? A tome rehashing all the wind you’ve generated over the decades, which could have been used to power half of Dublin rather than be wasted on your gaseous, embarrassing self-glorification and sucking up to the fucking powerful! I still haven’t managed to get that fucking album you planted on my iTunes off my fucking phone! That turd hasn’t flushed for ten years! And don’t pretend you wear those fucking sunglasses all the time because of an eye condition, you wear them because of a twat condition!

The BBC undertook an eight month study into abuse sent to MPs, analysing three million tweets for ‘toxic’ content. However it counted tweets which used the word ‘stupid’ as potentially abusive, concluding that Tory Ben Bradley MP suffers most from online abuse.

Fuck my dog, eight fucking months and that was your conclusion? Ben fucking Bradley? That’s like building a homemade computer in your workshop, crunching the data and it claiming Dewsbury was the most desirable place to live in Britain. I mean you’d have some fucking doubts about your methodology and your machinery, wouldn’t you? Eight months! You stupid, timewasting, clueless wankstains. And yeah, that’s toxic, I hope you fucking choke on it, it’s all you gaslighting arseholes deserve!

Finally, it seems that in US midterm elections the Republicans have fared rather less well than expected raising the ire of former President Trump.

Well, you despicable, pouting, pompadoured lump of fascist dog excrement, it’s finally sinking in with even the thickest Americans that you are a fucking liability! Still, don’t get mad, get even! Start a civil war in the Republican party! Go on, mate, we’ll hold your jacket! Get in there! Do the fucking world a huge favour and tear this parasite on the ignorant, this piece of moneysucking, shitflinging, earth-destroying machinery that is the GOP, in two! Then go throw yourself in a lake of boiling piss to celebrate!