Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

‘For what is a pie without a lid?’ as Plato said.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You’re still writing Prince Charles on all your death threats. So hard to get used to!

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Jesus ate nothing but pitta bread and olives and he still only lived to be 33. Makes you think.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

In the next Fast & Furious the nitrous oxide is accidentally hooked up to the air-con, Vin Diesel pulls the handle and loses a crucial race while absolutely pissing himself laughing.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

That’s the third Lego model in a row that’s arrived completely in pieces. Fucking joke of a company.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Maybe someday the metaverse will be advanced enough that it can force you to give a shit about it.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

What it is, is a new album. What it is not is a new fucking era.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

They say let sleeping dogs lie but it’s very difficult to perform your duties as a vet that way. Apart from putting them down.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

And once they’ve shut up about fucking Succession they’ll just go on about something fucking else.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

You’d love to ski into Gwyneth Paltrow one of these days. You wouldn’t even sue – probably just get a quick handjob.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Yes, goldfish have a poor memory. But only a scumbag would take advantage of that.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

What if Al-Qaeda never meant any harm? What if their hostage video was going badly and the director just made the traditional gesture to wrap it up?

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that nutsack Donald Trump

WAKING in a gutter in Hamburg’s notorious Reeperbahn, I once again am able to blame no less an authority than the King for my ignominy.  

I had accompanied Charles and Camilla on their state visit to Germany and, after three days of toasting burghers, suggested we give security the slip and visit some of Germany’s more enticing nightspots.

The King was reluctant but Camilla was game and so we hit the St Pauli district for a bar crawl where the Royal couple’s inhibitions swiftly loosened. ‘I’m King Charles!’ yelled our monarch to one and all after his sixth beer. ‘And I’m Queen Camilla!’ shouted Camilla. ‘And I,’ I declaimed, ‘am the PRIMATE OF ALL ENGLAND!’

From the joviality with which we were greeted, I suspect our fellow German revellers assumed we were lookalikes or a cabaret turn; hence our true identities were preserved. Charles prattled in perfect, if slurred German throughout the evening, and I travelled from ignorance to fluency in the language by the night’s conclusion, or such was my unshakable belief.

I daresay there may be some mention of the affair in the newspapers but, perusing the English-language periodicals in Hamburg’s departure lounge, I read only that Donald Trump faces criminal charges over payments to pornographic actress Stormy Daniels.

Douse my clackers in aniseed and dangle them over the wall of fucking Battersea Dogs’ home, is there any fucking chance this might actually result in the pelican faced cunt actually being dragged to court before the year 2050? Or does he still get to ride around his estate all day in a gold-plated gold cart swigging tomato ketchup from the bottle? This shit has been going on for years! There are babies yet unborn who’ll reach old age with all this not fucking resolved! Four simple words: Guilty As Fucking Fuck. Bash the gavel and throw the fucker in a penitentiary to be some 30-stone methhead biker’s prison bitch! Just fucking do it! This afternoon!

Pop star Ed Sheeran has opined that in the modern age of streaming, there is no need for music journalism. ‘Why do you need to read a review? Listen to it. It’s freely available. Make up your own mind.’

Jesus, you fucking divot, is it not enough that you’re hogging about two-thirds of the audience pie with music that’s not so much created as excreted which anyone with functioning brains and ears would rather drink paint than listen to? Some people like you, the vast majority of us fucking have to put up with you! We’re fucking force-fed you! But that’s not enough, is it? You’d hate a music hack to point out that there might be fucking alternatives to having Galway Girl stamping on a fucking human face forever! Fuck off back to the medieval cathedral tower you fell off, you fucking gargoyle!

Ricky Gervais is on tour again across the UK, with tickets selling out fast.

You know, as an Army cleric during the war, I found myself detached from my unit in North Africa and, unfamiliar with the terrain, stumbled into a ravine. My cries for help went unheard for days and, on the brink of starvation, driven to the point of madness, I contemplated gnawing my own genitals off for sustenance. And I tell you this, I would rather gnaw my genitals off this very day than endure a second of the smug, self-satisfied, nasty, torrent of sheer twat that is Gervais. Fuck the absolute fuck off, you monumentally irrelevant shitehawk!

Finally, following the death of Paul O’ Grady, deputy prime minister Dominic Raab paid tribute in parliament to ‘Paul Grayson’ but warned against the danger of ‘wokery… inhibiting British comedy’.

Well, you certainly know what you’re fucking talking about, don’t you! ‘Paul Grayson!’ Oh yes, oh for the days of comedians like Eric Tarbuck, Cannon And Large, Tommy Dawson, of sitcoms Love Thy Blackface, It Ain’t Half Amusing To Be Asian and Are You Being Queer, before Rik Elton came along and ruined everything with his political correctness! Sit down, shut up and never talk about anything again, you wretched fucking cunt!