Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

All dogs go to heaven. All cats go to hell. Guinea pigs end up in an endless squeaking purgatory.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Nobody’s weird sexual fetish ever turns out to be the British.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

I wonder if all the eBay sellers are going to wait until the very last second to pay their tax.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Pretend your car is a self-parking one by simply closing your eyes and hoping for the best.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Constantly accuse your wife of having an affair and fingers crossed, one of these days you’ll be right on the money.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

When it’s someone’s round, you should be able to say that you do not want a drink but would like to substitute it for chips or garlic bread of equivalent value.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Lathering yourself in Original Source Mint and Tea Tree shower gel just to feel something.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

It’s annoying when the Spotify algorithm suggests new music you might like, when the right way to find out new music is car adverts.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

This is a great weekend to go to the seaside and check it’s just as miserable there.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

It’s a shame nobody has answering machines anymore. There is no other device so effective for explaining the story so far to the viewers.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Sad to see all the Amazon delivery drivers just tossed out on the pavement for the bin men to collect.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

‘I buy my second-hand vehicle from Steve’s Motors on the A503,’ says out-of-copyright Mickey Mouse.

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The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the heinous crime of early twatting Easter eggs

WAKING and recovering from a temporary alcohol-induced loss of eyesight, I am astonished to espy two police officers and a fellow in a mitre, the spitting image of myself, standing by my bed. 

‘There he is!’ cries my doppelganger. ‘Two years ago he abducted me, tied and bound me and locked me in the cellars of my own palace. This man is an impostor!’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ I ask the officer in charge.

‘Well, his story seems very plausible. I must say, Your Grace, if that is indeed your honorific, your behaviour has at times struck me as un-Archbishop-like. The swearing, the drinking, the sermons promoting atheism, the booty calls to Gloria Hunniford…’

‘What is your name?’ I ask the man in the mitre.

‘Justin!’ he replies.

‘Justin who?’

‘Justin Timberlake! I am Justin Timberlake, Archbishop of Canterbury, King of Malta and Emperor of Uranus! Bwahahaha!’ Upon which he makes a strange clucking noise before being escorted from my chambers by the police, with their profuse apologies.

That little incident over and done with, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Conservative MP Jake Berry has expressed shock that Easter eggs were on sale in the Haslingden branch of Tesco. ‘What is going on?’ he asks.

Mary Magdelene’s fuckflaps, what’s going on? Fucking capitalism is what’s going on, you silly cunt! The system that lines the pockets of you and your arsehole mates while slowly killing the rest of us! Seriously, have you nothing better in your poxy, shrivelled, narrowcast, walnut-in-vinegar right-wing mind to get up in arms about than this? Always looking at the fucking smaller picture, eh? Tell you what, never mind Easter coming early, what can’t come early enough is a general fucking election where you and your parasites are exterminated as a viable political party until the end of time!

Edwina Currie has spoken out against striking junior doctors, suggesting they measure value by the ‘smiles on the faces of those people that they’re able to help’ and ‘not by looking at their pay packets.’

Because when it comes to paying rent and utility bills, landlords will willingly take the smiles of patients in lieu of fucking currency! And let’s have a look at your pay packet while we’re at it, shall we, you very-much-less-than-key-worker! I’ll tell you one hospital worker who didn’t always bring a smile to the patients unlucky enough to be visited by him: your dear old mate Jimmy fucking Savile, to whom you gave the run of Broadmoor!

Former Mayoral candidate Baron Bailey of Paddington has lambasted Carol Vorderman, stating on GB News that her political commentary was incompatible with her possession of physical features. ‘If you look at her Instagram it’s all pictures of her bum and her boobs,’ he said, ‘so what is it, here? She can’t be both.’

Fucking hell. You howling, sexist, tit-hungry ignoramus. If Lord fucking Lucan were still alive he’d be embarrassed to share ermine with a cunt like you! It’s as well you’ve got a fucking arse as without it you’d have nothing to talk out of, you total, fully-comprehensive, no-claims-bonus-insured big-faced twat!

Finally, it seems Prince Andrew is mentioned in court documents in relation to the late Jacob Epstein, including the lurid claim he involved a puppet of himself in his activities. There is concern that these revelations could undermine attempts to rehabilitate the Prince.

Fuck, yeah, that’s my big concern – the maintenance of the fucking facade that the Royal Family aren’t a wretched, grasping, dysfunctional, barely-human bunch of cunts, and in one case, and I’m not saying it’s Prince Andrew, a nonce! Learned how to fucking sweat yet, Andy? Because if not, it’s high time! A fucking puppet of yourself! I bet even fucking Savile never whipped out a puppet of himself! Fuck upon fuck!