Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Sagittarius (22 NOV-21 DEC)
Remember that the police will be focusing on drink drivers right now, making it the perfect time to start kidnapping dogs again.

Capricorn (22 DEC-19 JAN)
It’s the busiest time of the year in your social calendar but hopefully you should be able to remember both entries in it, especially as one of them is a chiropodists appointment.

Aquarius (20 JAN-19 FEB)
It’s not your fault you’re always late, is it? Oh that’s right, it is, you utter fucking nightmare.

Pisces (20 FEB-20 MAR)
Masturbating in a city centre branch of Tesco does not necessarily make you a ‘metrosexual’.

Aries (21 MAR-19 APR)
A great sense of relief this week as several ambitious and pissed-off generals may now have access to nuclear weapons, rather than the single lunatic who managed not to use them for years.

Taurus (20 APRIL – 20 MAY)
Who’s the black private dick that’s a sex machine to all the chicks and why he is texting you at two in the morning about what a complicated man he is?

Gemini (21 MAY-20 JUN)
This week you will have a date with destiny, and she has a much fuller moustache than the photos on the escort’s website suggested.

Cancer (21 JUN-22 JUL)
Oh good, that bit in the Inbetweeners film where the tall one does the robotic dancing is on the telly again. Excellent.

Leo (23 JUL-22 AUG)
You’ve always had an old head on young shoulders. A bit like a midget wearing a Michael Douglas mask.

Virgo (23 AUG-22 SEP)
I don’t care how infectious your workmate’s laugh is, that is not the reason it burns when you pee now.

Libra (23 SEP-23 OCT)
Go to Morocco. There you will meet a man called Hassan who will ask whether you enjoy the works of Proust. He will drive you to the foothills of the Q’altar mountains where, hidden deep in a cave, is a man that, legend has it, knows how to stop Windows downloading updates.

Scorpio (24 OCT-21 NOV)
Dogs have been known to predict earthquakes and cattle predict thunderstorms but you’re surprised this week when you come home to your bedsit to find the cockroaches have spelled out the words ‘The boiler is giving you carbon monoxide poisoning’.

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Your problems solved, with Holly Harper

Dear Holly,
I’ve come to the decision that the people of Britain have been far too naughty this year, what with all the looting and rioting and striking, so instead of wasting my time on Christmas eve delivering presents, I’m going to have some well deserved ‘me time’: a soapy wank in the bath, quaff a couple of bottles of Baileys and watch the Downton Christmas special in my slanket. Do you think this a good idea or is Downton Abbey a load of overhyped shit?
Love,
Santa

Dear Santa,
Why is it that you and my parents are so obsessed with the idea of being good? Why would you sit in the library with boring old Cynthia Walker and trace over pictures of baby Jesus when you could be running free with Oliver French in the playground, chasing the stray dog that’s got in through the fence. It may be risqué, but who could resist throwing stones at its head when it stops to do a massive yellow poo on the football pitch? And, although it was Oliver, not me, who picked up the dog turd and flung it at the nursery it did make a splendid yellow splat on that lovely white wall and it would have been rude not to stand there and laugh. Anyway, I’d much rather be sitting at the naughty table, sniggering at Mrs Dodkin’s moustache and flicking bogies at her back than watching that cow Cynthia blunt my favourite glitter pen on the baby Jesus’ massive, boring halo.
Hope that helps, and Merry Christmas!
Holly

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