Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Just Stop Oil? Just stop various sporting events, more like. Someone should tell them.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Imagine being an ancient druid and finding out that ‘sun worshippers’ is what tabloids call people who go to the beach.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Apparently they’re renting clothes in London now. The poor bastards can’t even afford to buy fucking clothes.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

L is for the way you look at me. O is for orange juice. V is for Vinnie Jones. E is for estimated taxable income.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

What? It’s not a biopic of Klaus Barbie, the Nazi better known as the Butcher of Lyon? You had been thinking Margot Robbie was miscast.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

There’s one born every minute. One of Boris Johnson’s fucking kids, that is.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

From this single set of footprints on the beach where Jesus was carrying me, I see he was also wearing some sweet Air Jordans.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

McDonald’s could increase revenue and do something socially conscious by giving kids something they actually want in a Happy Meal. A rescue puppy.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Napoleon was a terrible person, but not as terrible as your ex-colleague Barbara. You once saw her throw an obviously recyclable Coke can in the normal bin, and Napoleon never did that.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

You could walk up to Chris Martin and tell him you were the drummer from Coldplay and he would believe you.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

They say ‘let the cat out of the bag’ like it’s a bad thing. A cat shouldn’t be in a bag in the first place. What is wrong with people?

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

When Caesar was assassinated he turned around and said ‘Kiss me, Hardy,’ and getting his name so wrong is what really pushed Brutus over the edge.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... those flat-track bastards at the Sun

WAKING up with a dry feeling in my mouth, as if having eaten a pair of corduroy trousers, I sweep aside the empty bottles atop my duvet and recall the events of the past few days.

Approached by the BBC to take part in a ‘reality’ documentary titled 48 Hours In The Life Of An Archbishop hosted by Fiona Bruce, I enthusiastically agreed to bring my Christian message to the public.

It was typical Sunday evening fare: a certain amount of imbibing, two arrests, a fistfight with a cow and a roisterous drinks reception which culminated in Lambeth Palace being burnt down.

However, I received notice from the Corporation that not only would the documentary not be broadcast, the master tape would be sealed in lead and buried 800 feet underground in an undisclosed location.

Moreover, Ms Bruce has been granted six months sabbatical leave on the grounds of nervous exhaustion. If you cannot take your liquor, Ms Bruce, do not pick fights with livestock, say I.

With a resigned ‘Que sera, sera,’ I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that the Sun newspaper revealed that a BBC broadcaster, later exposed as Huw Edwards, had inappropriate exchanges with a child, who turned out to be an adult, which could be grounds for criminal charges, though it turned out there were no grounds for criminal charges. Kelvin Mackenzie was among those invited to discuss the matter on the BBC.

Dip my arse in fucking ammonium, The Scum’s dropped both fucking bollocks with this one! The Sun, harbourer of sex pests, a bloke who killed his fucking wife and the newspaper that put topless 16 year old girls on page three for its fuckwitted lecherous readership to gawp at, a defender of public morals? I hope you get your fucking sweaty arses sued off, you bunch of life-ruining hypocrites! As for the BBC, what the fuck are you doing inviting that cunt Kelvin Mackenzie on to discuss tabloid ethics? That’s like inviting Harold Shipman on to discuss standards in care for the fucking elderly! Way to join in with your own fucking demolition, you weirdly self-loathing twats!

Novak Djokovic, just turned 35, has had another fine Wimbledon tournament and was considered the favourite from the outset.

Fuck you, Djokovic, you fucking science-denying, big-nosed piece of cunt! When they finally developed the vaccine I thought there’d be universal dancing in the streets but no, there’s always a bunch of conspiracist fucking clothheads with idiot alternatives to reality! Like we’re supposed to listen to someone who reckons ‘molecules in the water react to our emotions and speech’. What the fuck are on about, you fucking dingbat? I tell you, promoting your anti-vax drivel, using your worldwide platform to sway the gullible, you’ve been responsible for more deaths than if you’d taken a machine gun out of your bag and randomly strafed the crowd with bullets at the French Open final, you awful twat’s-game prick!

Lovers of art are invited to enjoy the immersive experience of Van Gogh’s art at London’s Commercial Street, in which visitors can feel as if they are inside the Dutchman’s artworks.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, spare me this bollocks! How old am I, eight? They’re fucking paintings! They’re meant to be fucking looked at! That’s what Van Gogh painted them for, to be fucking looked at! If I wanted an ‘immersive’ paint-based experience, I’d open a tin of Dulux and pour it over my head, you ridiculous cunts!

Finally, in the week criticisms have been levelled at the ‘alpha male’ culture of the House of Commons, Jacob Rees-Mogg said of the Privileges Committee report which concluded that Boris Johnson knowingly misled parliament that ‘this report is in danger of making the House of Commons look foolish’.

Christ’s Turin wanksock, I think that ship sailed the time you decided to treat the Tory front bench like a fucking hammock and took a snooze in the middle of a parliamentary session, you fucking fugitive from a Dennis The Menace cartoon! You are the very embodiment of why the House of Commons doesn’t just look foolish, it looks outright cuntish, you complacent, pseudo-classical, malignant, pig-ignorant shower of badger’s piss! Still, no one could accuse you of being a fucking alpha male! With your pigeon chest and pea-sized gonads, you’re kappa at fucking best!