Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You’re seeing Barbie and Oppenheimer on the same day, but you can’t decide whether to see the depressing indictment of man’s self-destructive hubris first, or Oppenheimer.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Vapes need a rebrand to get cool. Let’s see Audrey Tautou puffing clouds into the Parisian sky out of a Banoffee Pie ElfBar.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

The Vision Pro doesn’t sound like an Apple product. It sounds like the Apple knock-off priced £16 in the queue at TK Maxx.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

I’m on the seagull diet. Every time I ‘see’ a ‘gull’ I smash my face into the chips you’re holding.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Professions where it isn’t an advantage to be nicknamed ‘Shaky’: surgeon, pilot, artist, and, ultimately, pop star.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Nature abhors a vacuum, especially dogs.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

For just £10 a month, you could sponsor a corporate wanker to buy himself one pint in central London. I don’t know why you would, but you could.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

It’s not really fair that Friends Reunited has become such a punchline. You ruined four marriages on there, one your own. Myspace couldn’t manage that.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Watching fish is supposed to be relaxing. Going fishing is supposed to be relaxing. So why is Extreme Fishing with Robson Green such a motherfucking thrill ride?

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Money is no object, particularly now everywhere takes contactless.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Yeah, but what if AI comes up with new Beatles songs and they’re really good? What are you going to, stubbornly stick to authentic handcrafted Ed Sheeran?

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

In your CV under ‘qualifications’ it just says ‘none – dog on playground’.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the vile emissions of Chris cocking Martin

WAKING up in Lambeth prison, my customary Friday berth, I slake the thirst I have built up by drinking a bucket of my own urine in one draught. 

Uncertain of what charge I have been detained upon this week, I totter over to the desk sergeant, with whom I am on familiar terms.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” he says, genially. “I hope you slept well. I suspect your knee must be sore, what with the force you applied it with to three of my officers’ groins while resisting arrest,” he chuckles indulgently.

“What was the nature of the charge filed?” I wonder. “Pissing in Gloria Hunniford’s handbag,” he replies. Ah. I was worried it might be something major. Ms Hunniford and I have history.

Let off with my customary caution, I return to my chambers, where I read that Rishi Sunak has visited President Biden to cement the ‘special relationship’.

Marinade my balls in fortified cockjuice, ‘special relationship’? It’s not nineteen-forty-fucking-five! The relationship is as about as special and equal as the one between Long John Silver and his fucking parrot! We all saw the photos of you in that big chair, legs dangling like Dennis Waterman in that shit Little Britain sketch! It symbolises what a busted-down, desperate runt of a country we are that we’re run by one! Mind you, Starmer’s pretty much the same fucking height!

Donald Trump faces further legal problems, after being charged with illegal retention of classified documents. ‘I AM AN INNOCENT MAN!’ thundered Trump.

You know, in a fucking way you are an innocent fucking man. Innocent as in cretin, halfwit, chowderhead, peabrain, ignoramus, lunkhead, schnook, numbskull fuckwit! The reason you’re popular is that the milllions upon millions of cretins, halfwits, chowderheads, peabrains, ignoramuses, lunkheads, schnooks, numbskulls and fuckwits who linger like undigested red meat in the intestines of the American body politic have someone they can regard as their fucking intellectual equal! You are the moron’s moron! The cunt’s cunt! And, thank Christ, the loser’s fucking loser!

West Ham United won their first trophy in 43 years, prevailing over Italian club Fiorentina to win the Europa Conference League title.

Now there’s a inspiring story, eh? Here’s what you can do when the state hands you the Olympic stadium for fuck-all, with nothing but the proceeds of a fucking half billion pound porn empire to fund you! Still, enjoy it, you happy fucking Hammers, because the next time you win a trophy – the Anusol Cup against fucking Doncaster in 2066 – Norfolk’ll be an undersea theme park, Prince William will be slumped morosely on the throne, and we’ll still be at war Russians led by the head of Vladimir Putin in a fucking jar!

Finally, Coldplay’s Music Of The Spheres tour is their most ecologically sustainable to date, producing 47 per cent less CO2 than their previous stadium tour in 2016-17.

You know what would a good way to get that figure to zero emissions? Stop fucking touring! Stay the fuck at home, strumming your fucking anodyne, homeopathically insipid, desperately nondescript, plodding, wan, cod-Radiohead bilge to your pet goldfish! You may have cut down your fucking emissions but that’s still the equivalent of about 10,000 cows farting directly into the ozone layer! That’s to say nothing to the collective psychic stress of knowing that you cunts continue to hover over the fucking globe, blocking out joy and drizzling quiet misery on our lives with your relentless, enduring mediocrity!