Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

On tonight’s Bake-Off Pru’s necklace is a nine-inch light-up ten-function translucent vibrating dildo, and still nobody dares say anything.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Last year had a record number of assaults on bus drivers. Congratulations to Ian Pritchard from Hull with 35!

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was teacup pigs.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

In America, you have to tip 20 per cent. It’s the only way to ensure that the waiter doesn’t follow you into the car park and shoot you point blank with an AR-15.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Why don’t they cut out the middleman and throw the Pokeball right into the opposing trainer’s nutsack?

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Win the Omaze house? You must live in it for life. It doesn’t matter if you lose your job, your kids can’t get to school, and you can’t afford bills or food. You bought the ticket.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

For the first three months of the zombie apocalypse, they’d be fine. For the next six their trousers would be around their ankles, and after that they’d be cocks out.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

God, you’d love to be cancelled one of these days. A clear diary because everyone refuses to work with you just for some light, easy bigotry? Sounds relaxing.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

You haven’t got nipple clamps? Then what do you do when your nipples get loose?

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

There are a lot of Easter eggs in Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket. And now, thanks to cheap DVDs and an afternoon in Waterlooville Asda, there are a lot of Full Metal Jackets in the Easter eggs.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

They can’t fire you because you know where the bodies are buried. At the cemetery. You drove past it last week.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You complain about passive aggression, but would you really prefer a straight honest punch in the face?

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Gwyneth Paltrow's health bollocks

WAKING in a puddle of my own regurgitation lapping gently against my nostrils in the high breeze, I am approached by an enigmatic stranger.

‘Where am I?’ I ask. ‘You have arrived in the future,’ he replies. ‘Look around.’

I hoist myself upright. I am in a dystopian urban landscape, a tableau of charred desolation, with boarded-up windows, burnt-out cars, and mangy stray animals the street’s only occupants. Is this what will become of Britain decades hence?

‘I must hasten somehow back to my own time and issue a warning of the hellish state of things to come,’ I say. ‘What decade is this, young man? What year? What place?’

‘Huh? When I said you’d arrived in the future, I meant eight hours into the future. This is March 24th, 2023. You’re in Bolton.’

Ah yes, I recall now. A visit to the regions on ecclesiastical affairs, followed by a convivial libation, followed by a fist-fight outside Level nightclub. Gathering myself I return to London, and read that Boris Johnson has appeared before the Privileges Committee delivering testimony which some felt was not altogether truthful.

St Francis’s severed cock pecked at by birds, you made Richard Nixon look like the young George Washington, you brazen fucking hulk of teeming twat! At least you gave your fucking lawyer a laugh at our expense, listening to you talk prime, silken bollocks for two fucking hours! You’re fucking finished, fatberg! You’re the final scene in a shitty Carry On film, slumped on your throne in your fucking underpants, drool dribbling down your vest, burbling ‘Infamy, infamy, they’ve all got it in for me’, as your handmaiden Dorries kneels and fans your fevered fucking brow! Carry On Cunting! Which I daresay you somehow will, you Teflon fucking tosspot!

Sir Keir Starmer has complained about the waft of cannabis entering the homes of his constituents and ‘ruining lives’.

First up, how would you know about what goes on in your constituency since you’re never fucking there? Second, as former head of the DPP we know you’ve got a raging hard on for sending black boys to prison but don’t fucking insult our intelligence with all this bollocks about ruining lives. The stench that’s ruining life in Britain right now is the shit being pumped into our rivers thanks to water privatisation but have you got any serious plan to deal with that? Have you fuck! Politicians should never, ever talk about drugs, because it reveals them as the cowardly, hypocritical wankers that they are!

Lifestyle influencer Gwyneth Paltrow has this week been in court involving a skiing accident in 2016 which left a man unable to enjoy wine tastings.

Shame you didn’t offer the geezer one of your homeopathic treatments, Gwynnie, that’d have done the fucking trick. As long as his injuries weren’t of the sort that require something that actually works! Or you could have steamed his penis, if what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the fucking gander! Who fucking knows who hit fucking who or whatever but one thing’s for certain – you’re a worldwide health menace with the avalanche of shite you unleashed down the mountains with fucking Goop! 

Finally, King Charles III’s trip to France has been postponed, owing to public unrest and French attitudes towards the institution of monarchy.

I should fucking well coco! The French have got the fucking right idea, unlike the bunch of spineless, grovelling fucking serfs known as the British people! Raise the retirement age from 62 to 64? Fuck that! I’d have retired the fuck out of myself if I could have done it at 62 and spent my remaining years Paltrow-dodging in Aspen but no, because of the docile, peasant mentality engendered by the fucking monarchy we have to work till we drop dead! Tell you what, there’s nothing about this country that a couple of tumbrils and a half-dozen refurbished guillotines couldn’t fix!