Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

15th January 2023

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Groups shouldn’t be allowed to replace members. The Rolling Stones should be just Jagger singing and Richards doing a one-man band.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You don’t hear much of Marie Kondo these days. Did she cease to spark joy?

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

You laughed when your kid’s class got an ‘emotional support hamster’, but after having it over Christmas you were wrong. That hamster was your rock.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Whenever you’ve got a decision to make, you think What Would Jesus Do? and do the opposite, because it didn’t work out for Jesus.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

There’s a big sale on at DFS if you’re a Leo. Hurry, it ends soon.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Joining Disney+ to watch The Banshees of Inisherin felt weird at first, but then Mickey Mouse does only have three fingers.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

White Creme Eggs? Oh, and I suppose that’s not racist?

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

If only square dancing were cultural appropriation of marginalised Appalachian communities, you’d have an excuse to get out of your sister-in-law’s 50th.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Energy-saving tip: you’ve already read all the energy-saving tips there are to offer and they’re shit, so save yourself the arseache.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

It’s your birthday this week. The stars say it’s a shit time for it.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

If you went on University Challenge you’d buzz in with ‘Pitt The Younger’ for every question. You’re bound to get one of them right and just maybe all of them.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You don’t worry about closing the curtains when you change so no-one will see you naked. Nobody wants to see you naked. You’ve asked.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Harry's sodding book sales

13th January 2023

WALKING in an upholstered chair at a round table with studio lights beaming down harshly, I realise that I am on the panel of Question Time.

I must have dozed off, having sampled the green room refreshments copiously, after being called on to provide balance in a panel that consists of Kate Hoey, Julia Hartley-Brewer, Jacob Rees-Mogg and Rod Liddle.

The eyes of Fiona Bruce are upon me. It seems that, in keeping with the title of the show, I have been asked a question. Heaven knows about what.

Hastily gathering my wits, I improvise a tirade on the moral, physical and sexual failings of my fellow panelists containing a record-breaking string of expletives. It is, I understand, the most viewed clip of the show ever on social media and I am to be invited back next week.

My duties to the state broadcaster discharged, I peruse a periodical where I read that Rishi Sunak, flanked by flags, has addressed the nation as prime minister.

Christ’s kidneys in a pie, what stupid fucking ideas have you got up your sleeve now? Following that idiot one making people do maths till they’re fucking 20, which was about as much fucking use as a clown throwing a bucketful of tinsel on a binfire? Business studies for the under-fives? Nurses to work 24-hour days in return for a £100 gift voucher? The homeless to be made to volunteer as human footstools for stressed bankers? Fuck me sideways, staring into your eyes is like staring into a gaping, remote void of oblivion! You have no idea about any fucking thing at all, you useless, stupid-eared little cunt!

Prince Harry’s book Spare, in large part a damning critique of the British media, has sold 1.4 million copies in its first week of publication despite negative reviews from the British media.

Talk about touching a fucking nerve! He’s got the card of the fucking tabloids, right-wing broadsheets and every other hypocritical hack well fucking marked! Mind you, I did my bit: during my last sermon I brought out my advance copy and said ‘Fuck me, there’s stuff about his cock in it! Not sure we need that on a Sunday morning!’ and watched half my congregation raced down the aisles to get a fucking copy! There’s nothing like a denunciation from the pulpit to boost sales! My work is fucking done!

Boris Johnson is back in the news, announcing another trip to Ukraine to meet Zelensky just as the inquiry into Partygate is about to open.

Yes, you sack of rancid semolina, we fucking get it! Whenever it looks like you’re about to get your arse handed to you, hotfoot it to Ukraine and pal with your mate Zelensky in the hope of looking fucking statesmanlike by osmosis! Poor cunt’s got a war to fight and he’s taking time out to gladhand a transparent, useless, opportunistic, jovially psychopathic lying twat! Take care not to step on a fucking mine!

Finally, Right Said Fred’s Richard Fairbrass believes recent arrivals in the country are being trained to combat significant social unrest such as the unvaccinated being dragged from their homes by force.

You know, as with Phil Spector and Wagner, when it comes to Right Said Fred we have to find a way of separating the art from the artist. I mean yes, Fairbrass might shit absolute bollocks on a daily basis, but should that mean we can’t listen any more to any of their nine – that’s fucking right, nine – albums? Well, it’s a fucking sacrifice we’re going to have to make, folks, because Richard Fairbrass is a criminally ignorant bellend who needs to be shot out of a cannon into the Atlantic ocean at terminal speed!