Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Teenage girls. Kindly establish what connection Harley Quinn has to Halloween before dressing as her and making every male over 18 feel like a paedophile.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You only bought Britney Spears’ memoir in the hope that she’d mention you. But there’s not one reference to you listening to her CD in the car in 2001, the ungrateful cow.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Killing two birds with one stone is meant to be a good thing. But when you did it all the children just kept screaming and crying until the penguin keepers overpowered you.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Cancer is one of the more attractive signs of the zodiac, as evidenced by Margot Robbie, Chris Pratt and Sofia Vergara. But so you don’t feel left out there’s also paunchy dough-faced wanker Elon Musk.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

If you don’t have many opportunities to be a sanctimonious twat about smoking these days, just update your comments to vaping, eg. ‘My advice is don’t start in the first place.’ People will still want to smash your smug f**king face in.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You’ve never looked a gift horse in the mouth. Come to think of it, you’ve never looked any kind of horse in the mouth. You’ve gazed lovingly into the eyes of a particularly attractive cocker spaniel, but that didn’t end well.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Venus is in conjunction with Mars and it’s playing havoc with your bowels.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 21nd

They say you can’t judge a book by its cover. What total crap. Peppa Pig’s Tree House was an entirely accurate representation of the contents.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

The course of true love never did run smooth, like your relationship with your girlfriend Nancy at secondary school. First she wouldn’t wank you off behind the bike sheds and now she’s married with three kids to a dentist in Guildford. To be honest, you’re starting to wonder if things will work out between you.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

‘To err is human, to forgive, divine’ said Alexander Pope. His girlfriend probably caught him wanking during Countdown too.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Saying ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged’ just seemed to annoy the magistrate when you were in court for three grand in unpaid parking fines. Looks like Jesus was talking bollocks again.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Acclimatise your dog to Bonfire Night by cutting a hole in the fence and going for walks on an army firing range. Probably don’t play ‘fetch’ though.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Tom Hunt MP's struggle to find English people in Ipswich

WAKING up in a ditch near Doncaster, following an ecumenical retreat which developed into a most convivial affair, I find that while asleep I have been robbed of my mobile telephone and my wallet containing my cash and credit cards. 

They did not take my mitre, staff or cassock, thankfully. There being no public call boxes at hand, I am forced to trudge towards the nearest motorway and ‘hitch’ a ride back to London. 

After 40 minutes, a lorry driver finally pulls up. ‘I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ I say. ‘Please can you give me a ride in the direction of London?’

‘You can’t be the Archbishop of Canterbury ‘cos I’m the fackin’ Archbishop of Canterbury!’ guffaws the fellow. ‘Gertcha, you bleedin’ weirdo!’

In desperation I am forced to use my last resort. I draw up to the driver, face-to-face as he is about to drive off, and exhale hard. My rum-soaked breath is enough to render him unconscious. I push him to one side, take over at the wheel and drive the Heavy Goods Vehicle back to London myself, a journey not without incident. 

Back at my chambers I refresh myself with a light repast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that shadow Chancellor Rachel Reeves has been accused of plagiarism, lifting entire sections from other sources, including Wikipedia, for her book The Women Who Made Modern Economics. She initially denied the charge, then admitted to ‘mistakes’.

My dog’s cock on a fucking stick, have you dropped a fucking bollock or six here, or what? And what the fuck are you doing with a full-time task like writing a book when you’re supposed to be a full-time politician? I mean, face it, you didn’t fucking write this, you paid off some Young Labour hack to do it and they fucked up! But you can’t fucking admit to that, can you, because the fucking truth’s like Kryptonite to you New Labour cunts!

Tyson Fury is set to fight this weekend; his opponent is one Francis Ngannou, a mixed martial artist. The fight will take place in Saudi Arabia, where executions are rife and women are legally required to obey their husbands.

Still, what’s human rights when they drive up to your enormous house with a truckload of fucking money, to add to your already colossal pile of money? You’ll throw the last of your principles on a fucking bonfire for an extra two or three million quid, which to you is what 30p is to the rest of us. Of course, Fury’ll cakewalk this farce of a fucking contest – it beggars belief that a bloke who looks like Al Murray after he’s been stretched on a rack is the hardest man in the world and shows how soft as shite this generation is. But will I be watching? No! Because I’m fucking moral, unlike you, you lanky cunt!

An event titled Britpop Classical is currently touring. It features artists such as Ocean Colour Scene’s Simon Fowler, Cast’s John Power and The Bluetones’ Mark Morriss. They’ll be performing a selection of their biggest hits with a live orchestra.

You know what, there aren’t enough fucking violins, woodwind sections and timpanis in the world to redeem the reheated dregs of tenth-rate, geriatric, desperately Caucasian bollocks on display here. It’s like putting a white bow tie on a fucking turd, is this! Ocean Colour Scene should have been buried deep beneath the ocean bed decades ago and Cast cast from a giant catapult into the fucking sun the day after they were fucking formed! 

Finally, in an interview with Sky’s Sophy Ridge, Tory MP Tom Hunt asserted that ‘If you walk into your town centre, hearing people speaking English is almost a rarity.’ He is the MP for Ipswich.

And so, the day arrives when the word ‘cunt’ should be retired and replaced with the altogether more malignant and obscene term ‘Tom Hunt’. Virtually no one speaks English in Ipswich? You went on telly and said this? Is finding non-transgender people a rarity also? Did you actually go to the town centre or is this just something you reckoned after brooding for an hour in the attic of bigotry that is your fucking addled Tory mind? Tell you what, if I go to a town and I hear nothing but English spoken, that fucking worries me because I’m concerned I’ve maybe ended up in a community full of racist, Brexit wankers like you!