Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

More universities should team up the way Oxford and Cambridge has. Consider the positive impact Hullverhampton or Plysentry could have on society.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Other things people who live in glass houses shouldn’t do: grow cannabis, slam into walls, fuck.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Like a bird on a wire, you’re fucking freezing.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Why when young people wear leather jackets do they look like James Dean, but when you do you look like an Eastern European human trafficker?

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

People say money is the root of all evil, but it can also get you beer and KitKats. So it can’t be that bad.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Serving suggestion: on a yacht, in the Caribbean, at sunrise on another beautiful day of doing as you please. You won’t even care that Special K tastes like shit then.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Oh, want your own personal prediction, do you? What makes you so special? Entitled dick. Just read Pisces or Cancer or whatever, it’s all made up anyway.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Cool Ranch is both a flavour of Dorito and something you can say to a farmer.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Having been cut off from the mainland for so long, the MILFs on MILF Island have evolved vestigal tails and an extraordinary sense of smell.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

You travelled back in time to February 2016 to prevent Brexit but couldn’t resist popping a grand on Leicester winning the title. And that’s how they caught you.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

You can barely call those things that horses wear ‘shoes.’ Get them some Jordans.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Sick of the nine to five grind, you’re now working 7am-11am and 8pm-midnight shifts at your local Spar and frankly it’s not an improvement.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the long-awaited return of Liz f**king Truss

WAKING in a field, find myself in the position so terribly endured by our Lord Christ; propped against a wooden post, my arms to either side across a horizontal beam of wood.

I cry out, as did the tormented Jesus, to the Almighty Father in confusion before remembering that after an evening in a Cotswold pub with fellow clergymen, an abstract theological debate sadly and predictably came to blows.

Making good my escape from the constabulary across difficult rural terrain, I spotted a scarecrow, switched clothing with him, tousled my hair and arranged myself in his place to watch the unsuspecting officers rush past before greying out until morning.

Retrieving my cassock I head home, where I read that former prime minister Liz Truss plans a return to the political front line.

Christ’s badly soiled loincloth on a golden crozier, are you shitting me? Truss? A fucking comeback? That’s Harold Shipman toying with a return to the fucking NHS! Or the Captain of the Titanic putting himself forward for a fucking Arctic cruise! Or Dracula applying to become a fucking blood donor! What goes on in that hamster’s wheel of a fucking brain of hers? You basically owe everyone in Britain a grand each! You’re lucky not to have been put in a giant fucking catapult and sent arcing into the fucking sun, you impervious, swivel-eyed, ruinous shithead! 

Andrew Bridgen, the Conservative MP found guilty of a breach of parliamentary standards and described by a High Court judge as having ‘lied under oath and behaved in an abusive, arrogant and aggressive manner’ has concerns about the COVID vaccine, whose devastating, concealed after-effects he believes warrants an urgent inquiry.

When I heard the news on the radio that they’d developed a vaccine for this fucking virus, I was sitting in the bath. And when I leapt out of that bath and ran nude and rejoicing down the streets of Westminster, I wasn’t the only one! Hundreds of us, bollock naked, dancing in the fucking fountains of Trafalgar Square! It never occurred to me that there would be pea-brained, medievalist morons who were against the bastard! It’s such a fucking shame there isn’t a way of injecting braincells into the heads of thick twats like you, though we’d need a syringe the size of a fucking cruise missile! 

Daily Mail columnist Sarah Vine has berated teachers for taking industrial action, describing the UK as divided between ‘silent strivers and noisy strikers’.

Mother Mary’s wet fart, ‘silent strivers’? Is that what you think you are? I think one of the conditions of being silent is, you know, shutting the fuck up once in a while? Which you never fucking do, you bleating, self-pitying piece of twat, shrieking away on your giant fucking perch like some pampered domesticated vulture! You don’t know the first fucking thing about work! You wouldn’t last a fucking morning in a secondary modern, not least thanks to the almighty balls-up your moron ex-husband made of the fucking educational system! 

Finally, this weekend sees the beginning of the annual Rugby Union Six Nations tournament.

Fuck. No sooner have I sweated till midnight to complete my shitting tax return, then this lumpen arsefest gets fucking dumped on us. Out of the frying pan, into the fucking fire! A game as tediously oafish as it is incomprehensible! Show me a Rugby Union fan and I’ll show you a cunt! A cunt who pours lager over his fucking head rather than into his fucking mouth because that would stop them a) breathing or b) braying some cherished song about murdering women or some such shit for one fucking second! I hope every last fucking player on those pitches gets kicked so hard in the bollocks they’re forever prevented from breeding more meatheads in their own image and this game dies out like the fucking dodo!