Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

They should have a third expression added to those theatre masks. A bored one, reflecting what it’s actually like watching a play.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You can’t change your football team. So even though you became a fan when you were eight and didn’t know they were fictional, you’re Melchester Rovers for life.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

They should even things up a bit by hunting a horse on foxes every other year.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Would you break a bufferfly on a wheel? No. No, in fact you can’t imagine how that logistically would be achieved.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

To encourage smokers in their quitting journey, manufacturers should make one cigarette in every pack a firework.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

‘Speak softly, and carry a big stick’ is the code of the lollipop lady.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Anyone describing themselves as a self-made man is lying. They were actually made by their parents fucking like beasts.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

You send your mate Steve to see the Guns ’N’ Roses tribute at the Pavilion. If the real band can’t be arsed turning up, neither can you.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Turn off radiators in unused rooms to save money. Because everyone has at least two or three rooms they don’t use, and often closer to 10 or 20.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Bouillabaisse: The original energy drink!

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

You don’t believe in the moon landing. Who would bother going somewhere so boring? At least Nuneaton has got a Greggs.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

At parties at the British embassy in the small mid-European country of Ferrero Rocher they serve pyramids of Scotch eggs.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... King twatting Charles the Third

WAKING in a chair in a TV studio I realise with a start that I am seated opposite a grotesque gargoyle that is, I soon surmise, an open-mouthed Piers Morgan. 

Having enjoyed the refreshments of his green room, it appears I nodded off after an impromptu and fulsome assessment of the failings of a certain politician.

‘What you have just said,’ thunders Morgan, ‘amounts to the most disgusting, drunken, foul-mouthed, treacherous, unfounded, pornographically obscene and libellous tirade against a former prime minister I have ever heard. That it comes from a man of your spiritual authority makes it all the worse. This will be the ruin of you, you realise that?’

‘We shall see,’ I reply. taking my leave. And, as suspected, I suffer no consequences since literally no-one was watching Morgan’s show, not even the sole member of studio floor staff who was blessedly unconscious at his station.

Back at my chambers, I peruse a periodical and learn that King Charles has been in the news for his withdrawal of a Royal property from Harry and Meghan and his inability to attract star names to his coronation festival.

Holy Moses’s cock commandments, have you any fucking idea of the optics of this, you wheezing mass of fucking burst capillaries? ‘Sorry, son, hop it, we need to vacate this house for your Uncle Andrew. See, there’s good royals and bad royals and we want to send out a message to young people about the difference between the two.’ I mean, fuck to the power of fucking fuck! Tell you what, though, if this is your outlook, I hear Gary Glitter’s out of the slammer, why not have him headline your fucking coronation festival? Ossified twat!

Matt Hancock has regretted passing his WhatsApp messages to journalist Isobel Oakeshott, who leaked them to the Daily Telegraph and revealed to Britain that his decision-making during the pandemic was often flawed.

Of all the piss-weak twats to pour themselves into a suit in Johnson’s government, you were the piss-weakest. Why in the name of fuck did you trust Oakeshott? Did you hope she might make up something about you fucking a farm animal which might marginally enhance your reputation? Did you fall for her because she was a girlie so she might be your girlfriend if you copped a feel of her arse in a fucking lift? I bet you wish you could lock yourself down for the next 20 years till your blushes subside, you wretched little tit!

Ardent Brexiteer Steve Baker expressed his relief at the breakthrough Northern Ireland deal, talking openly about the toll it has taken on his mental health.

For fuck’s sake. Won’t someone think of the fucking frothing, gibbering, right wing Europhobes who plunged us into this colossal fucking mess? Cost to your mental health? How well was your fucking brain functioning back in 2015 when it thought Brexit would be a good idea? You deserve to be strung up by your ballls and pelted with fucking tomatoes, you self-absorbed, self-deluding, self-pitying bucket of dicks, only thanks to you we’ve no fucking tomatoes so it’ll have to be rotten turnips instead!

FInally, it seems that Noel Gallagher has misgendered Sam Smith in an interview with Dutch media, calling them a ‘f***ing idiot’ and ‘uncool’.

As every year rolls goes by, and you get duller and fucking duller, making dishwater taste like fucking absinthe, don’t you? Because it’s all you’ve got left in your shrivelled, greying fucking arse, this sub-90s laddish shithousery! Are you on a mission to out-twat Morrissey? Why don’t you just fucking shut the fuck up, listen to your all-white, all-hetero, all-rock, all male fucking record collection and let the world change without you, you ignorant cunt!