Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

There’s no place like home. Except IKEA. That’s quite like it.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Fonts you’ve had sexual fantasies about: Lucida Grande. Helvetica Bold. Verdana. Ariel Black, but not the one from the new Little Mermaid.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Those Prime drinks should only be sold for 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19 or 23 quid.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Look, your three-year-old was up too late, he saw the trailer, you lied about it, he misunderstood and so yes, his teddy is called Cokey. Short for Cocaine Bear.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

If they want a bigger audience for The Ashes they should upgrade the prize. Still ashes, but maybe Elvis’s or Jerry Springer’s.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Thirty days hath September, May, January and November. See? You can put any fucking month in there and it still scans.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Grey food unnerves you. What are mushrooms hiding?

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

You’re so vain you probably think the song is about you, and the song is Built To Spill’s Nowhere Nothin’ Fuckup.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Poor Phil Schofield. I bet he still rises from his sofa at 11.15am every morning to introduce an item about how to feng shui your garden.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

‘Fit for a king’ is a good way to describe Charles’s clothing but an awkward way to describe Charles himself.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Nothing as stupid as a dog and as mean as a cat should be that big. That’s your assessment of horses.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

“Warren? No, I’ve not met him, but I’ve smelled his piss around,” your dog says to next door’s Shih Tzu.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Boris Johnson crapping out an exclusive turd

WAKING in Hyde Park on a scorching summer afternoon, I realise I am surrounded by not my customary empty rum bottles alone but also my discarded mitre and cassock. 

Thoroughly sunburnt, clad only in boots and a thong. I gather my raiments and return to Lambeth where I am made aware that pictures taken as I slept have been shared widely on social media, to much merriment.

Consequently Sunday’s service, normally a sparsely attended affair, is packed to the rafters with the young and curious. As I conduct the service I feel my newfound flock’s enthusiasm palling.

‘Oh, what the hell,’ I declare, remove my cassock and displaying my red-raw naked body, with only the line of my thong white, to the congregation. A mighty cheer goes up and the rest of the service goes off with a swing.

Returning to my chambers I have my clerk instruct vicarages across England to follow my example to boost attendance, before I read that Nadine Dorries is furious that a working-class Liverpool woman like herself has been denied a peerage.

Jumpstart my tits by wiring them to Megatron, I know the honours system is so fucked it’s a embarrassment to be in receipt of one nowadays but what in the holy name of Christ’s bollocks makes you think an ignorant, malignant, risible, vain, slurring, pathologically shameless, twat-infatuated, wrong-as-fuck spacewaster like you deserves a place in the fucking House of Lords? Working-class? To be working-class you actually have to do some work, and you’ve done fuck all of that! Yeah, the people of Liverpool are right behind you, that’s why they don’t vote Tory! That’s why they’ve stopped buying The Sun! Because they’re disgusted with the way ‘our Nadine’ has been treated! Stupid fucking twat!

A band’s tour programme reads: ‘Not many bands in music history have started their career with seven albums of such high quality. Doing all that while evolving and expanding the sound makes it even more impressive. We might even have to start talking in terms of The Beatles.’ The group in question is the Arctic Monkeys.

The advantage of being an Archbishop and working in an Abbey and shit is that when I read something like this I’ve got immediate access to a fucking aisle to roll in! Arctic Monkeys? The fucking Beatles? We’re not even talking The Monkees! Generic, tediously hairy, crashing guitar bores if ever I heard them! Running the full fucking gamut of rock shittiness from Shit’s End to Shit O’ Groats! The Arctic Monkeys? The Arctic Cunteys more like!

The Daily Mail, which described the privileges committee’s inquiry which found Boris Johnson had repeatedly misled parliament as ‘vindictive’ and ‘spiteful’, has reportedly hired Boris Johnson as a columnist.

Really? Good luck trying to get that lump of greedy, lazy, unkempt, psychopathic scum to write the fucking thing! Requires more physical effort than a staged ten-yard jog around a fucking hedge for TV cameras! And good luck trying to get anyone whose brain isn’t a boiling, misfiring cake of privileged fury to read it! Kids. If your grandparents are still reading the fucking Daily Mail – sitting in their fucking conservatories in their fucking pullovers reading the fucking Daily Mail – feel free to batter them with their own garden gnomes, then get power of attorney and have the bastards sectioned! That rag is a cancer on the fucking country!

Finally, it seems former Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi has died at the age of 86.

Fifty fucking years too late – pity there’s no God, as the Pope said to me on a Zoom chat – but still, fucking brilliant! I shit on your grave, Berlusconi! I charter a helicopter and shit on your grave from a great fucking height! There’s a three-berth cradle in the hottest depths of Hell, surrounded by boiling rivers of fire, and Trump and Johnson’ll be joining you there soon enough. But you’re the first to rot in it, you festering pillar of world-worsening wank!