Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

For sale. Baby’s shoes. Too big.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Marvin Gaye sang ‘there ain’t no mountain high enough’, but never even made it as far as Everest base camp.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

When people decribe something as being just not cricket they are almost always correct.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Get real, if there were people riding round cities with big green cubes on their backs in a videogame you’d totally smash them for energy.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

People want a white knight to come along in a tough situation but actual white knights are people like Sir Barry Gibb. What’s he going to do? Fuck all mate.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

The rise of the Dogstar in your sign proves that, as in the 90s, we are approaching peak Keanu.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Now you think about it, you’re not sure your granny does know how to suck eggs.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Loaded potato skins is what you call those loutish families that win the lottery.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

‘If you think about it, zip-tied rows of pallets are basically fences,’ you say to your neighbour conversationally.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Friends is the most on-the-nose laziest possible title for a TV show. Also two of them were relatives and 66 per cent of them fucked.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

You were enthralled by the idea of a crab cake but it never lived up to your expectations. No icing, no candles and it couldn’t scuttle.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

There is little more likely to get you in shit than wincing at the misspelling of a child’s name on a large man’s neck tattoo.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the rock arseholery of Royal Blood

WAKING in my bedchamber with an unaccountable headache, I sweep away the empty bottles with a shattering swish of the duvet and attend immediately to my correspondence. 

A stained missive from ITV advances that, following the abrupt departure of one Pip Schofield from This Morning, as a man of piety and moral standing I was asked to be his replacement.

I have little memory of how it went, owing to an incautiously well-stocked green room, but I read phrases like ‘slurring and belligerent’, ‘indescribably foul invective’ and ‘fist-fighting the floor manager’ were used, and that Ms Willoughby was denounced as a painted whore.

However ratings for the edition were the highest in years and would I consider returning next week? Setting the letter aside, I read that beat rock combo Royal Blood stalked offstage, middle fingers aloft, at Radio 1’s Big Weekend, branding the crowd ‘pathetic’ for their lukewarm response to ‘who likes rock music?’

‘Who likes rock music?’ What sort of fucking question is that? It’s like asking ‘Who likes food?’ With the implication that anyone who thinks Royal Blood suck goats’ balls must therefore hate rock music since Royal Blood are its finest exponents, right? Fuck you, you pair of bratty, needy, tenth-rate dickheads! So fucking what if the crowd would rather watch roadies packing away stage gear than watch you cunts perform! The only reason they were there is to bag their place for when someone good came on! And ‘someone good’ in this case was fucking Lewis Capaldi!

It seems that on October 7th, Ashfield & Mansfield Conservatives proudly present dinner with Lee Anderson MP, Ben Bradley MP, and Jim Davidson. Tickets are £50 per person.

Roast my balls and dip them in Mötley Crüe’s signature hot sauce, I’d just as soon light my fucking farts with a burning £50 note then spend it on this cavalcade of copper-bottomed cunts! This is gonna make a 1930s Munich beer hall feel like a Ben Elton-hosted benefit gig for fucking Nicaragua! Three horrible bastard chortling about wokeness or whatever other imaginary shit gets their coked-up cholesterol-caked capillaries popping! I tell you what, whoever has the shit job of catering this night is gonna be pissing hard into that tureen of soup, I’d skip starters if I were you!

Andrew Tate, the influencer currently under house arrest for human trafficking, was taken to task for his misogynistic views by the BBC for 40 minutes this week.

Nice work, BBC. I guess that’s why they say ‘there’s no such thing as good publicity’, eh? Fucked this good and proper, didn’t you, in your amoral, tabloid hard-on for notoriety! All the fucking current affairs you could have spent 40 minutes going into, the things that seriously matter right now and you give this loathsome chunk of poisoned fucking shark meat a platform he’ll subsist on for fucking months! The only place a bulging prick like Tate should be interviewed is a windowless room in the basement of a Bucharest police station, not treated like he’s Princess fucking Diana!

Finally, Roma, managed by Jose Mourinho, were beaten by Spanish club Sevilla in the Europa Cup Final on Wednesday. After the match, Mourinho waited in the stadium car park to lambast referee Anthony Taylor and call him a disgrace.

Here’s a tip, Mourinho, you spoiled, bullying, whining, snitty streak of fucking pissy self-entitlement and rampant cuntitude. Here’s a tip to you and your teams – play some fucking football, rather than cheat, dive, writhe around in mock agony, and flock around the referee after you’ve skied the ball 20 yards over the barn demanding a sodding corner! There’s six-year-olds watching you saying ‘Chi è questo fucking bambino?’ The day of twats like you in football is done, Mourinho! Good fucking riddance!