Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Time to try living a more continental lifestyle. Eat salad. Take late night strolls. Start driving on the right.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Save money by buying fewer Faberge eggs.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

God is up there right now, guiding your actions with a PlayStation controller. He’s pressing X repeatedly but you refuse to jump.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Your newborn baby doesn’t speak, doesn’t go anywhere, cries a lot, is always sleeping at odd hours of the day then awake all night. You think it’s post-natal depression.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

If you’ve ever been in the sea you’ve technically swum with dolphins. They might just have been quite far away.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

How about we tell the sensitivity readers to do whatever the fuck they want to Charlie and The Great Glass Elevator? That one already sucks.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

As more Britons tick ‘atheist’ on the census form the tiny angels and devils that used to live on their shoulders are being forced to work driving Ubers and shelf-stacking.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Look, if each of us brings in just one brick we can build a semi-detached house in the O2 during the George Ezra gig and noise-complaint the motherfucker right off stage.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Ostriches aren’t putting their heads in the sand when danger approaches – they’re showing you their arse. They’re the bravest damn birds around.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Pease pudding hot, pease pudding cold, pease pudding disgusting either way.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

You can drink Skittles from a glass. In fact, once you’re over 35, it’s pretty much de rigueur.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Whatever happened to Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? You swear you put the DVD in the loft.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that dickhead Stanley Johnson

WAKING in a small boat in English waters beside a slumbering Suella Braverman, surrounded by empty gin bottles, I recollect how I arrived at my present pass. 

A Church committee suggested I join the Home Secretary to see for ourselves the conditions for asylum seekers crossing the channel. Regarding myself, the Anglican church, Christ and God as meddling do-gooder liberals, she hoped to persuade me to her robust point of view.

Our debate turned into a drinking contest, which appeared to have petered out into a draw. Through the sea mists I see border patrol officers sailing out to meet us.

Recognising me immediately due to my gold-embroidered cassock and Canterbury cap, I am helped abroad. Braverman, looking the worse for wear, seeks to join me but is swiftly rebuffed.

‘Not you!’ barks the officer, with a kick sending her boat back to open sea. ‘We don’t need your sort in Britain. We run a hostile environment here. Piss off back to Iraq!’ he shouts, as her vessel vanishes behind waves topping six feet.

Back ashore, I read that Sir Keir Starmer has unveiled five missions for government including ‘good jobs and productivity growth’, ‘breaking down the barriers of opportunity to reform’ and ‘harnessing life sciences and technology’.

Christ’s chafing thighs after riding a donkey in the baking sun, ‘missions’? Who the fuck do you think you are, Tom fucking Cruise? Anyone else would use ‘pledges’, but that word turns to shit when coming from your lying mouth because your political history is littered with the fragments of every fucking pledge you’ve broken in the past! Mind you, it’d be hard to tell if you broke this set of promises because they’re so fucking woolly you could knit jumpers from them! Massive economic growth at zero ecological cost, yeah, that’s gonna fucking happen! Twat!

Colourful character Stanley Johnson, father of Boris Johnson, appeared on Good Morning Britain to shoot the breeze with the show’s hosts, suggesting cyclists need not wear helmets and hi-viz.

Yeah, a fucking ‘colourful’ character, including the red of your wife’s blood splattered all over after you broke her fucking nose! No way should a disgusting, ignorant cunt like you be allowed anywhere near a fucking TV studio! Yours are the genitals that spawned the fucking psychopath whose reckless ambition has left this country literally and metaphorically drowning in shit! If Starmer had a pair, he’d have made one of his missions to have you castrated with a clawhammer and your balls nailed above the door of 10 Downing Street as a fucking warning!

Roald Dahl’s publishers have rewritten passages in his books, right-wing commentators to suggest we were on the slippery slope to Nazi Germany.

Who gives a shit? He was a fucking anti-Semitic twat! You might as well rewrite Mein Kampf so that it was more suitable to read to children at fucking bedtime! No one should be exposing their kids to any thoughts or words that emerged from the warped. diseased mind of this weird uncle who should have been no more writing kids’ books than Stanley Johnson should be made Minister For Road Cycle Safety!

Finally environment minister Thérèse Coffey has suggested that during the current, non-Brexit related tomato shortage, Britons might turn to winter vegetables such as the turnip.

Fuck yeah – an insalata tricolore with mozzarella, avocado and turnip, just the job! Turnips? The abused donkeys at donkey sanctuaries turn their noses up at fucking turnips! At least Marie Antoinette suggested we eat cake! And what happens when the turnips run out, as they’d find a way of doing under this fucking government? Well, we could eat shit! It’s currently abundant and flourishing in our waters, truly a British specialism to be cherished! Our very own shit! Just take a boat and a net and scoop up all the turds you need – no charge, just another handout from this generous government! Because this is what it’s fucking come to in this country!