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Let's move to a city where where your life expectancy lowers the moment you're off the train! This week: Glasgow

Ah, bonny Glasgow, recently voted one of the worst cities to live in Europe due to violence and gang turf wars.

Star Wars: why it's time to let it die

IN 1977 a really good space action film came out. In 1980 it had a great sequel. 42 years later, it’s time to put the franchise out of its misery.

Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

If we really want children to learn about responsibility we shouldn’t let them win a goldfish at the fair. They should win an Alsatian.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Boris Johnson keeping sodding going

AWAKING after a late evening with a delegation of Belgian Trappist monks, experts in brewing, I realise the bed I repose in is my own and summon a junior cleric.

I exhausted every possible avenue trying to stop my flight to Rwanda. But tragically, this plane took off

ONCE again, a plane sat on the tarmac at Heathrow, awaiting clearance. Once again, a passenger was desperate not to fly. But it was me and we had to.

Let's move to a town just near enough to much better places for you to spend your life in transit! This week: Reading

Check out the station car park, the most expensive in the country – and rightly so, since the only reason to live here is to leave.

How I paint my Space Marines, by Dame Emma Thompson

WHEN I’m in my trailer between takes on Cruella or Last Christmas, I settle my nerves and concentrate my mind by painting a Chaos Lord in Terminator Armour Space Marine.

Sally Rooney: why she's boring as f**k

SHE’S the literary sensation of the century, but are her books understatedly fascinating or remorselessly banal? The latter.

Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

‘Mary Magdalene wasn’t really Jesus’s girlfriend. They were more like f**k buddies,’ you explain, to your Sunday School class.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that pisspot Priti Patel

WAKING up in a Hell’s Angel clubhouse, my head thumping like the timpani section in Wagner’s Die Walküre, I taste petrol on my lips.