Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Imagine how many more shirts Ralph Lauren would have sold if he’d put a cool sport on them instead, like skateboarding or dogfighting.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

‘Our electricity pylons provide an accessible zip-line network covering the whole UK,’ you posit, before discovering that’s not the case at the cost of all your limbs.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

You know, as Ronan Keating sang, you say it best when you say nothing at all, so shut the fuck up.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You’re flattered when the barmaid at your local remembers what you had last time you were in. Fifteen pints of Stella, eight Jägerbombs and a scuffle in the car park.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

346, 101, 221, 30 and of course 15A. Ah, the buses of your youth.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Virgos are rich, so your horoscope is now behind a paywall. To find out your prospects for love, happiness and wealth this week, pay up.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

The sixth Spice Girl, Pumpkin Spice, only appears for three months each year and she’s orange and obese.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

It must suck for stand-up comedians being heckled onstage. But who else are you going to heckle, a neurosurgeon?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Winter Love Island but in Finland. Still outdoors and all in bikinis and trunks. Shivering, terrified, coupling simply for wamth. Television gold.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Old-school shoe brand Kickers’ line of gloves – Fisters – never took off in the same way.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

To you, a Dominic, practically everyone in Britain is a non-Dom. And it shouldn’t be fucking allowed.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Abolish the House of Lords. Release the Lords onto Crown estates to run free and breed. Then hunt them.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... dickheads dressing as crusaders

WAKING in the jungle, breath pungent with kangaroo’s testicles, surrounded by slumbering elderly and eminent men in cassocks, I dimly recall how I came to be here. 

Four men of the cloth and I resolved, two days earlier, to charter a private flight to Australia to hold our own contest entitled I’m an Archbishop… Get Me Out of Here! We may have taken a little drink.

The subsequent 48 hours are, I admit, something of a blur. I remember my friend, the roguish Archbishop of Matabeleland, putting me up to several trials all of which involved home-brewed bamboo liquor, and a wrestling bout with a crocodile.

Putting it behind me I abandon my colleagues and fly home, reading that Sir Keir Starmer has declared Labour to be pro-business, adding that ‘profit, success and enterprise are what drive Britain on.’

Christ’s bollocks in a Christmas sandwich, I bet Keir Hardie’s well pleased at how the party he fucking founded turned out! Resting well easy in his grave! At last, a political party that thinks of the entrepreneurs and fucking corporations. For too long, they’ve been at the mercy of greedy, overpaid workers having a laugh. Thank goodness one party has stepped up to defend capital against labour, and how fucking appropriate that that party should be the Labour Party! You useless, lying, slab-faced, dead-eyed fucking cunt! Cross the fucking Commons floor and join the bunch of cunts you actually fucking belong with!

At the Qatari World Cup, a number of England fans have been turned away for being dressed as crusaders. It seems that the costume, denoting as it does the historical rape and pillage of Arab lands, is deemed offensive.

I may have called the Qataris ‘a bunch of misogynist, homophobic, medievalist, slave-driving wankers and I’m saying that from the C of E’ in my latest sermon, but fuck me if they haven’t got a point. Fucking crusaders? Is there a bigger herd of bovine fuckwits on God’s green earth than England fans? If you’d done a second’s research into your fucking imbecilic cosplay, you’d realise the crusaders were mostly French! You might as well have shown your support for England wearing berets, hooped jerseys and a string of onions around your necks, you moronic arseholes! 

It seems that the inquiry into Dominic Raab’s bullying has extended to take in his time as Brexit secretary.

Don’t get me wrong, anyone ill-fated enough to have to call a vacant twat like Raab ‘sir’ deserves sympathy on those grounds alone. But am I the only one thinking, ‘tell you what pal, fancy a pop at bullying me and see which fucking way you end up afterwards?’ I’d kick your arse from here to fucking Christmas and back if you so much as raised your voice, you stoat-faced shitneck! 

Finally, Tory peer and former lingerie business owner Michelle Mone is under scrutiny after an investigation found her company PPE Medpro made millions during the pandemic supplying equipment that was ultimately useless.

Mother Mary’s left tit, do you ever get the fucking feeling that we don’t actually exist at all, that we’re all figments of the imagination of some shit novelist writing a potboiler about sleaze in British politics? I mean you’ve got Michael Gove, who’s barely fucking believable on a variety of levels but – Michelle Mone? What, she co-starred in porn movies in the late 80s opposite Henry Horny, or in hot girl-on-girl flicks with Louise Lubricated? Get the fuck out of here with your porn name bullshit!