Your astrological week ahead for November 2nd, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Hundreds of single women in your area want to chat with you. About their cats and what a shit their ex-boyfriend is. F**k that.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Have loud sex at 3am on the cold, wet paving slabs where your wheelie bins are. That’ll show those fox bastards.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Dressed crab sounds like it’s all togged up in cute clothes until you realise it is in fact crab flesh forced back inside its own carcass as if Ed Gein designed the menu.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

That mailing list you signed up to on a whim is going to email you until you’re dead. Then it will dig up your corpse and ask if you’re sure you don’t want recipe kits delivered.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

The Lord of the Rings is full of hotties for ladies to incorporate into their sexual fantasies: Aragorn, Legolas, Boromir. Probably skip Frodo and Pippin. They’re good-looking but your Middle Earth sex fantasy won’t be very realistic if they don’t have tiny little hobbit cocks.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Mercury is in retrograde, which means absolutely f**k all. But do an Instagram reel about it anyway.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Resist the temptation to tell obsessive Bob Dylan fans he sounds as if a Muppet is wearing him on their hand and doing the voice.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 21st

Oranges are not the only fruit. Well, obviously. Maybe do a bit more research for your next book. Jeanette Winterson, you lazy cow.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

This week you will find love in the form of a tall, dark stranger. Shit, it’s the Babadook! 

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Quickly do a tidy and run the hoover round every night before you go to bed so you don’t feel embarrassed during a home invasion.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Avoid the boring parts of having a family by eating an entire M&S lasagne for four.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Taureans are often perceived as being stubborn and argumentative. Unfortunately you’re not a Taurus, you’re just a pain in the arse to work with.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... how's your plumbing business in f**king fantasy land going, Charlie?

WAKING up with a hangover the size of a former Soviet satellite state which turns out to be twice the size of Western Europe, I reflect on yesterday’s successful fight with a nun. 

I had been asked by a TV producer to present my ideas for hosting this year’s Songs Of Praise Christmas Special, filmed in advance. I proposed the following: I would be filmed sitting naked in my kidney-shaped swimming pool, filled to the brim with whisky, from which I would imbibe generous ladlefuls as I addressed the nation. 

I would then emerge, naked, from the pool, engage in various amusing activities, and finally lurch unsteadily toward an organ, upon which I would perform a medley of seasonal songs, including Too Drunk To Fuck by The Dead Kennedys and Too Many Cocks Spoil The Breath by 1980s Belgian industrial noise terrorists à;GRUMH….

I asked my producer if he had any thoughts on this proposed running order. ‘Brilliant!’ he said. ‘Last year’s special drew in 22 million viewers but this is gonna top even that!’

And so yesterday we proceeded as planned, recording a bare-knuckle fight with a Mother Superior, which I won decisively, an unexpected bonus. 

And so I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein, I read that Rachel Reeves stated in an interview with Sky’s Beth Rigby that she stepped down from Jeremy Corbyn’s shadow cabinet because she disagreed with what he was doing. Numerous people online have pointed out that Reeves was never in Corbyn’s cabinet.

Fuck my buttered toast, did you pull her up on this, Rigby? Did you fuck! A whopper the size of Grimsby and you let her hoot on in her usual unbearable, atonal way? And Reeves, is your mind so porous you genuinely can’t remember if you were in a fucking shadow cabinet? Or did you cynically calculate that you can spout wet horseshit by the gallon and today’s pliant, pitifully docile political interviewers will ignore the brown slop spreading across the studio floor? Or are you just a compulsive fucking liar and fantasist? When you won that chess tournament as a kid, did you beat Garry fucking Kasparov?

Oasis have announced that the support act for their forthcoming tour will be Cast.

Well, I have to say, that’s a fucking shrewd decision. Cast, a Britpop group so vaporisingly dull, so nondescript, so fucking extraneous, so un-preferable to drinking grey paint they make Oasis look as fucking exciting as 1980s Prince! The tragic thing is that the small minority of the crowd who haven’t literally died of boredom during Cast’s set will greet Oasis’s dismal fucking donkey plodding like it’s God’s golden spunk raining down on them from fucking Heaven! 

The Telegraph have reported that an elderly couple who invested in 60 buy-to-let properties in Colchester are now facing hardship thanks to the budget, and claim their generation has been ‘hung out to dry’. 

Hahaha, and we’re supposed to give a fuck? Hardship? 60 buy-to-let properties? Sell half a dozen of them, you fossilised fucking parasites. That’d keep you in solid gold false teeth till your imminent dying days and you can carry on bathing in the sweat from the brows of the poor fuckers in the other 54 properties forced to work in shit jobs to afford the rents imposed on them by self-pitying boomer cunts like you! Including your own home, you’ve got 61 more houses than many people. What else d’you want, a host of actual fucking angels to clean the fucking windows? 

Finally, it seems that Charlie Mullins, founder of Pimlico Plumbers, has said he will leave Britain due to what he considers excessive taxation of multi-millionaire business owners like him.

Yeah. Good fucking idea you peroxided fucking ponce. You go find a fucking country where there’s low tax because they don’t need roads, traffic lights or any other infrastructure, and your plumbers just float about from job to job unjamming U-bends like blue-overalled Mary fucking Poppinses! Except you’ll find that on your fucking fantasy island it’s so great that no one ever has to take a piss or shit and then your business is fucked to buggery! There should be a fucking Idiot Tax where fucks like you get fined for intellectual pollution of the public fucking discourse!