Your astrological week ahead for December 21st, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You’re not a liar, you’re an unreliable narrator sowing doubt in the mind of the reader and creating a liminal ambiguity, you tell HR.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

‘James Joyce? Joyce James more like, the big girl,’ as F. Scott Fitzgerald said to Ernest Hemingway in Paris, 1925.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Gemini are the twins, but my mate Martin’s a twin and he was born in August. So bollocks isn’t it, this astrology thing.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

There are three states of knowing. Not knowing, knowing and having one arm straight up and supported by the other.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

“And we’ve got an unexpected guest for Christmas – 95-year-old German social scientist and philosopher Jürgen Habermas!”

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

“Alexa, would you like to join my girlfriend and I in the bedroom? We’re feeling adventurous.”

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Been ages since you’ve had a good broth. Must be a too-many-cooks issue.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Don’t take your husband’s name. He might need it.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

There is a stage of nudity more nude than nude and that is top on, no bottoms.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

There needs to be more diversity in your family. So for that reason, your dad is gay now.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

A man unable to tell a hawk from a handsaw may simply never have seen a handsaw.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

“Frosty the Snowman has gone woke! There’s no time to explain, just turn up the heating and run!”

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the right to offend tedious old pseudo-intellectual bellends

WAKING with a hangover that has turned my blood quite green and my faeces purple, I reflect on the sermon I delivered yesterday and my remarks upon the festive season. 

‘Dearly beloved, I say to you this today,’ I began. ‘Fuck Christmas. It’s been Christmas since mid-October and I’m as sick of it as a nuclear fucking winter. Fuck your red hats, fuck the once-a-year pissheads clogging up the pubs, fuck pigs in blankets. 

‘I promise you most solemnly that over the forthcoming week, my church, under my ministry, will be a Christmas-free zone. Which means no carols for a start. No mangers, no Wise Men. The shepherds can suck my cock. 

‘Anyone who needs a break from the Oxford Street shit and ballsachingly cloying adverts, come to this church. It’ll be open all day every day for non-Christmas celebrationsBring a bottle. Bring several fucking bottles. I call it the Seven-day Fuck Christmas Party and it starts here!’

Upon which I cracked open an inaugural bottle of rum. Judging by the well-attended opening day, the spirit of non-Christmas is rampant in the populace. The event was a roaring success and a salutary reminder of the evils of the Christmasisation of commercialism. 

And so, before heading down to Westminster Abbey for Day Two, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Labour will not compensate ‘Waspi’ women born in the 1950s and affected by changes in the state pension. This is despite previous promises to do so.

Roast my balls on a fucking chestnut fire, Keith, that’s your election chances handed on a plate to Nigel Farage with a fucking apple in their mouth! You think it’s clever messing with women of that age? You can starve kids, sell arms to fucking war criminals and freeze pensioners to death and somehow get away with it, but you go up against the Waspis and they’ll tear off your bollocks with fucking claw hammers! You are so fucking stupid and so fucking fucked!

Humphrey Smith, owner of the Sam Smith’s brewery, has been profiled this week. A devout Christian and eccentric fellow, he bans all electronic devices such as mobile phones from his hostelries and also forbids swearing. 

Cunt’s sake, man, no wonder half your pubs are fucking shut! It doesn’t help that your lager tastes like piss samples from a donkey hospital. No swearing? We’re talking fucking pubs here! That’s like forbidding talking shit or crapping in the bogs. As for banning phones, d’you think punters are gonna sit there twiddling their thumbs staring at your fucking horse brasses? ‘Devout Christian’ is the fucking tell here. I’ve met enough of them in my line of work to know that makes you fucking suspect!

Stephen Fry has given an interview in which he blamed ‘the left’ for the rise of the far right, somehow due to its desire for ‘ideological purity’. He also raised again the right of people to offend in the face of political correctness.

Fucking hell, or as you’d probably say: ‘Oh, fuckity fuck and cockwombly silly things.’ The fuckwit’s idea of an intellectual strikes again! The far right are responsible for the far right and there’s basically no such thing as ‘the left’ because it was squashed by fucking smug liberal centrists like you! Still, if you want to compete with John Cleese as Britain’s stupidest ex-comedian, knock yourself out. Just because you’re a grossly overrated tosser who made a career out of saying the word ‘arse’ in a posh voice doesn’t mean we need to listen to every idiotic word you pull out of your own fucking rectum. That offensive enough for you?

Finally, Kelly Cates is among a trio of presenters taking over Gary Lineker’s role as Match Of The Day host. Many took to social media to express relief that Alex Scott did not get the role because that would have been ‘box ticking’.

Yep. Because you were fucking fine when the only boxes that need to be ticked for football presenters, decade in, decade out, were: 1. White. 2. Male. 3. Bland. 4. Cliche-addled. And 5. Just to stress this: definitely white and male. Unfortunately the sort of sewer trolls who come up with comments like ‘box ticking’ about Alex Scott tick the following boxes: 1. White. 2. Male. 3. Virgins. 4. Racists. 5. Scared shitless of women. 6. Wank into a sock in their mum’s basement and expect her to fucking wash it!