Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Thatcher would have fiercely opposed Ulez. ‘Ulez if you want to,’ she’d have said. ‘The lady’s not for lezzing.’

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Lock up your daughters. Not because anyone sexy’s in town, but because you suspect they may have committed armed robbery.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Is Yevgeny Prigozhin still alive?! Or is your new bald boss, who admittedly is a vicious, tyrannical piece of shit, nevertheless an entirely different person?

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Oppenheimer would have had an easier time if he’d created something that benefited the world, like ‘Honk If You’re Horny’ stickers.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Mum, it’s me, my phone got lost and I can’t access my account. Can you send £1,209 to this sign of the zodiac?

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Gandalf shouldn’t have come back as Gandalf the White. He should have come back with a leather jacket and a blue mohawk and declared himself Gandalf the Punk.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

“So just as we’re going into Shostakovich’s Chamber Symphony, he realised I’ve swapped his cello for a massive violin. The look on his face!”

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

“This Christmas’s hottest novelty gift? Luis Rubiales, The Kissing Spaniard is the new Big Mouth Billy Bass.”

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Wait, for all the other people celebrating 4/20 it’s a weed thing? They don’t even know it’s Hitler’s birthday?

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

It’s no wonder Turkey’s become the place to go for hair transplants. Their hair is so thick and so lustrous.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Oddly, you didn’t even notice there were no A-list stars on the red carpet at the Venice Film Festival. Maybe because you’re not there, it doesn’t matter and nobody gives a fuck.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Rolling Stone magazine’s stopped lying to itself and admitted the Album of the Year has been, for the last forty-three years, Van Morrison’s Moondance.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... home-schooling not being lockdown, dickheads

WAKING in an empty bathtub, I find the call of nature ringing urgently in my ears and my head throbbing as if it were being hammered by respected craftsman Mr Fred Flintstone. 

As two of my favourite pastimes are bathing and imbibing, I had the inspiration to combine them by bathing in vodka. It is beneficial to the environment, saving as it does on water.

Unfortunately my enthusiasm for vodka, redoubled by the novelty of bathing in it, was such that in my thirst I drained the entire tub in record time, and was cold and unconscious with a rubber duck balanced atop my genital array in mere minutes.

I fear the experiment has been a failure but since I have arranged for the plumbing in the Palace to pump out pure Tolstoy, including the guest chambers, I cannot reverse the plans before the hosting of an under-14s choral championship next week.

With a shrug, I urinate copiously and return to my chambers to peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Grant Shapps has been appointed defence secretary, his fifth cabinet appointment in a year.

Roast slices of my buttocks on an open fire, Shapps? A blue suitful of personal ambition and fuck all else? Just as well there’s not a major war on or anything so we can afford to have some useless cunt who went into politics because he couldn’t hack it as an estate agent in charge of fucking defence! You know that nagging little voice in your head that tells you you’re not up to the job? That you’re a no-good phoney? You don’t fucking hear that, do you, Shapps? You sail shamelessly through life, leaving fuck-up after fuck-up in your wake like the vacuous, ruinous Tory twat that you are, never entertaining a single doubt! And once you’ve accidentally sent the RAF to raze Kyiv to the ground you’ll probably get the keys to Number fucking Ten!

The closure of hundreds of schools built from unsafe concrete means children face a September of home-schooling. The Daily Telegraph has bemoaned the phenomenon as the ‘return of lockdown’.

Yeah right, Telegraph, today’s kids, eh? We had our ceilings collapse on us all the time in our day and it didn’t do us any harm! We dusted off the asbestos and got on with our sums! Proper English sums, not this politically correct maths you get nowadays! Pity it’s not our fucking C of E churches built from concrete with the structural integrity of a mint Aero, because if they collapsed it wouldn’t matter because there’s never any bastard in them!

It seems that 81-year-old Mitch McConnell, Senate minority leader for the USA’s Republican Party, has once again ‘frozen’ in front of the press cameras, provoking a wave of concern for his condition.

Not from me it fucking well hasn’t! Serves the evil twat right! He’s spent his entire career fighting tooth-and-nail to see that ordinary American people don’t get the free medical treatment he currently gets as a Senate politician! I hope his brain, completely incapable of reflection and lacking any conscience, is atrophying painfully right fucking now! Next time they trundle him out I hope he pisses right down his inside fucking leg!

Finally, John Cleese is to return to our screens with a new show on GB News, taking a sidelong look at current affairs. ‘Be prepared to be shocked,’ said the Fawlty Towers funnyman who has complained that he would be cancelled by the BBC these days.

Oh, we’re not going to be shocked. First, because we’re not going to be fucking watching. Second, because we know full well what a reactionary, toweringly irrelevant xenophobic tosspot you’ve ossified into in recent fucking years! Yeah, you’d get cancelled by the BBC, the way a toxic, wet, lingering fart gets cancelled by a routine spray of air freshener! You are a fucking ex-comedian. There are people with grandchildren who weren’t born the last time you said or did anything remotely fucking funny. Just retire to the little English village of Shut-The-Fuck-Up, you embarrasment of a cunt!