Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

People keep saying you’re punching above your weight, so you’ve put on four stone.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

“The uncrossed ‘t’ suggests procrastination, while the looped ‘h’ indicates a tempestuous streak. But why is it written in blood?”

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

You’re never too young to start claiming things were better in your day. My six-month-old cries constantly and I know it’s because of woke newborns.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

But if that court ruling is correct it means Piers Morgan’s some kind of lying arsehole. That can’t possibly be right.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

If the driver of the bus you are on is behaving in a rude and aggressive fashion, demand he stop. He represents you all and you can’t have your name attached to this.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

A leopard can’t change his spots, but he can change his car insurance if he’d just bother to look into it instead of renewing automatically. Lazy cat twat.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Drivers do not like you standing by the side of the road and giving a thumbs up to express how much you like their car. Sometimes they even pull over in rage.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

‘Look, if I’ve got a gun, I’m going to fucking shoot someone with it.’ Anton Chekhov, writer and playwright, 1860-1904.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Drink-driving in the 1970s: explain to the police you’ve only had eight pints, pay a shilling fine, then off to the next pub in your Austin Maxi.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Buy your wife 100 boxes of tampons to prove how unembarrassed about it you are.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Dua Lipa’s new song is called Houdini because you can punch her in the stomach as hard as you like and she won’t even feel it.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

It’s time to order mulled wine, scald your tongue on mulled wine, and sue the primary school Christmas fete for trying to kill you with mulled fucking wine.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the traditional Christmas misery-porn of EastEnders

WAKING with a clear head, feeling fully hydrated, the elevated state of the bedclothes alerts me that I am in possession of a massive and particularly rigid erection.

This happens following my regular dry nights in which I forsake spirituous liquor, taking place once every five years. It is unfortunate that this one, which you could hang your mitre on, coincides with my early morning appointment with the Little Sisters of the Poor.

To abate it, I resort to my usual trick and list former home secretaries: Roy Jenkins. Herbert Morrison. James Chuter Ede. Reginald Maudling. He usually does the trick, but not today.

In desperation, I fast forward. Leon Brittan. Michael Howard. Jack Straw. But still the rigidity persists. Alan Johnson. Priti Patel. Ah, some distinct softening. Suella Braverman. There it is! My member shrivels immediately.

My meeting done, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that erstwhile footballer Joey Barton has claimed women are ‘unable to talk with any authority’ about the men’s game and ‘white, middle-aged men’ are under attack.

Braise my balls and serve them on sticks to choirboys, what have we here? Just a corkscrew faced gobshite trying to usurp Laurence Fox as Public Tit Number One, that’s what! Leaving aside that you’re unable to talk with any authority about anything because you’ve got a sledgehammered walnut for a fucking brain, and your dismal-arsed attempt at gaslighting with the white, middle-aged man crack, we’ve got quite enough timewasting, spacewasting, attention-seeking trolls on our hands right now, sir! This is the first time I have mentioned your putrid, pathetic little name and it will be the fucking last!

EastEnders is gathering steam as we await its annual Christmas plotline, which this year involves a rapist and a death.

Cunt’s sake, who the fuck still watches this pointlessly, cackhanded, overacted pile of unmitigated misery? Life is shite, we all know that – having some sort of God would fucking help, but what are you gonna do? – but it’s not as shite as this! There are EastEnders people and there are actual people, and they couldn’t be less alike! For a start, real people stay the fuck indoors of an evening, mind their own fucking business and have no idea who their neighbours are. Saves a lot of fucking grief, I tell you!

Prince Charles, recently crowned King, has appointed Dr Michael Dixon as head of the Royal Medical Household. Dr Dixon has previously championed alternative forms of medical treatment such as faith healing, herbalism and homeopathy.

Well, this is a right kick up the fanny for your dead mother, Charlie! If she knew her idiot son had made a decision like this, she’d have tried to hang on a few more years! All that was keeping her alive in the last 30 years was keeping you off the throne as she fucking told me herself! She had her fucking faults – preferring horses and dogs to people, eg – but at least she knew a plant was just a fucking plant! She didn’t talk to the fuckers or ask them for medical advice! Fucking homepathy! It’s charlatans selling you tap water in little phials with pictures of dandelions on them, you gullible twat!

Finally, Rishi Sunak has fended off a rebellion by Tory backbenchers over his Rwanda bill. The various factions describe themselves as The Five Families, as in The Godfather.

Jesus on a fucking e-scooter, Sunak’s getting grief from people who think the fucking Rwanda plan is too left-wing? What could you do to make it more right-wing, issue official Border Force jackboots? Some country we are that a loathsome nobody like Mark Francois gets a say in how it’s fucking run! And what the fuck is this ‘Five Families’ bollocks? The sooner you fuckers are fired out of a cunt cannon into the fucking sea the better!