Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You still have to get a chair from the kitchen, stand on it, unscrew the old one then put the new one in. These so-called energy-saving lightbulbs are a load of bollocks.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Young people say Ross from Friends is ‘problematic’, but you know who was more problematic in the 90s? Hannibal Lecter.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

‘Fuck it,’ barks a desperate streaming executive, ‘everything else has been done. I’m greenlighting a £200m PG Tips Chimps movie.’

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

People say ‘it’s like riding a bike’ for something they can never forget, but you say ’it’s like that time I saw dad hanging out the back of mum.’

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

All the world’s a stage – except Swindon, which is too much of a shithole.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

I dreamt of a continental singing contest, cheap and swollen with pageantry. Thank God no such thing exists. Now to check the television listings from last night.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Narrow your focus by switching to reading this horoscope on your phone. Widen your horizons by going back to the laptop.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life. But be prepared for lengthy explanations when it’s ‘horse breeder’.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Now that she’s Queen, Camilla will be moving forwards, backwards and diagonally. She learnt the Cha Cha Slide for the Coronation concert.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

A ball pool would make a good metaphor for phyicists. ‘Imagine diving into an infinite ball pool,’ that kind of shit. You don’t know what it could explain, that’s their job.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Monster drinkers must be so ashamed when they see a man proudly bearing a can of Red Bull. It’s like a street drinker seeing a couple sipping wine.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Back in school you told a dinner lady to ‘go away’. She still thinks about that every night. Cries herself to sleep, poor woman.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the bastard pig filth

WAKING in a palatial chamber after a convivial evening at Clarence House, I find myself locked in the warm embrace of a woman purring sweet nothings. 

Opening my eyes I realise it is Queen Camilla herself, and I am conscious of another body behind mine, reaching around me sleepily with a playful, uninhibited groan.

I turn to meet the gaze of none other than King Charles III, nude and as ever anointed. Feeling somewhat sandwiched, I rocket from the bed, gather up my staff and mitre, smooth down my cassock and make my excuses.

As I close the door behind me, a voice from the bed calls out dreamily ‘Till next time, Archie.’ Returning to my chambers, I read that the Metropolitan Police detained protestors at the coronation, volunteers handing out rape alarms and a royalist who happened to be standing nearby.

Roast my dog’s cock on the eternal flame of Elvis, are we going to have to assemble some sort of police force in London to arrest the fucking police? I mean, seriously, there was a plot to throw rape alarms at the horses? That was the best you could come up with? I hope they sue the arses off you bunch of fucking sub-SS goons! Literally, the arses, flayed from your fucking bodies, and the bleeding, hairy buttocks placed on spikes in central London as a warning to the rest of you soon-to-be-disbanded, rotten-from-top-to-bottom cunts!

Former hip young gunslinging punk Tony Parsons said of the protestors: ‘How sour they seem, all those middle class kiddies with their #NotMyKing banners, how unhappy they look among those laughing, diverse crowds in London. Listen – he doesn’t have to be your King!’

Fuck’s sake, another grifter in the Allison Pearson mould who made their name as a cultural lefty and then took the shilling to suck establishment dick. ‘He doesn’t have to be your King’? He fucking does, you condescending prick, and there’s fuck all we can do about it! Trust me, I was there! It’s not like he’s Lord Mayor of London or some such sideshow, he’s head of a money-sucking, paedo-protecting operation designed to keep you penniless and powerless and those ‘laughing, diverse crowds’ are a bunch of fucking mugs for celebrating it!

Ex-minister Nadine Dorries, despite censure, is still drawing her wage as an MP while devoting most of her time to her TV career, the earnings of which she has yet to declare.

Boil my piss and dip my dick in it, we’re basically being run by a bunch of cartoon villains, aren’t we? It’s Gotham City minus a fucking Batman! Brazen, criminal parasites dipping their beaks in the public pot as and when they fucking please then lecturing us about benefit scroungers! Seriously, Tories, your time is up. You’re the SDP, you’re the Whigs, you’re political fucking dodos. After you’re kicked out, you are never, ever being fucking elected again! The old cunts you depend on – including Murdoch – will be dead the next time round and then you’ll regret having fleeced the futures of the rest of us!

Finally, it seems that none other than the Archbishop of Canterbury has been fined £500 for speeding in London. He was recorded driving at 25mph in a 20mph zone in his Volkswagen Golf last year.

Great fucking work, Plod! There’s pricks roaring around London in their pimped-up needledick motors, exhausts banging, turbos popping like fuck, and you go after a man of the fucking cloth! Just an everyday, inoffensive Archbishop who wants to get back home for a pint of vodka after a day’s tedious ecclesiastical seminar hosted by the Little Sisters Of The Poor! Well, you’ll get your fucking £500. I’m putting it together now. £500 in banknotes, baked into a fucking cake of my own, blood-flecked shit, delivered to you by courier by the end of the fucking day. Enjoy your fucking pieces of silver, you cunts!