Your astrological week ahead for January 4th, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

It’s quicker to ask which TV presenters WON”T be outed as nonces in 2025. Attenborough and Cunk. That’s it.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You’re more likely to be killed by a vending machine than a shark. Get your f**king facts right, Spielberg.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Your New Year’s resolution is to go to the gym. You did, then you came back. All it takes is willpower.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Women are such hypocrites. Your girlfriend always wants some of your chips, but when you shag her sister she’s not into sharing anymore.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

It turns out that if you’re not a benny tied to a post, you’re a benny on the loose. You won’t be falling for that at your next job interview.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

You can’t help but wonder if Virgo was into Warhammer.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

You’re only a failure by the standards of people. Foxes think you’re really successful because you only eat out of bins occasionally. And not many worms have passed their driving test.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 21st

An easy way to remember which months have 30 days is to learn this simple rhyme: 

31 days hath October,

But not February or September,

The first’s got 29 or 28,

Then apart from August, July, December, March, January and May,

They’ve all got 31, minus one day.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

As Billy Idol famously said, it’s a nice day for a rice pudding.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

On Antiques Roadshow people often claim that elderly aristocrats gave valuable items to their servant ancestors. So they just said ‘Here, have this this priceless Constable’ did they? With no witnesses. Sure they did, you genetically-descended thieving, murdering bastards!

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

If carrier pigeons have got such a brilliant sense of direction why don’t they stop scrounging and get a job with Amazon?

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

‘At least 2025 can’t be any worse than 2024!’ you joke, bravely. You’ve obviously not heard about the rapidly-spreading epidemic of spontaneous penis combustion.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Suella, strangely thick about where all the f**king foreigners come from

WAKING with a hangover so intense my brain is making an audible analogue noise similar to the stylings of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, I begin my New Year’s resolution: to observe Dry January. 

Well, more specifically, Dry January 1st. Dry until 9am. Last year I capitulated at 8.53am. This year, I had resolved to add seven minutes to that record.

It is a monumental struggle. Fearing that my own willpower may not be sufficient, I resort, for the first time in my life, to the power of prayer. Maybe there is something in it? 

And so, uttering an improvised supplication, I soldier on. 8.53. 8.55. By now, I am banging my forehead hard against my wardrobe. 8.57. I have opened my windows and am bellowing obscene imprecations as I writhe in torment. 8.59 and 30 seconds – 40 – 55, 56, 57, 58, 59 – I make it! 

I rip open a bottle of rum with my teeth and glug half of it in a single draught. Was this the power of prayer? I admit to a chink of uncertainty. How else to account for this miracle of abstinence?

Still pondering, I take a light breakfast and peruse a periodical. Therein I read that Suella Braverman has claimed a wall has been built between Italy and Turkey to curb illegal immigration, one which she has seen. Experts have pointed out that the countries are actually hundreds of miles apart.

Fuck me with my dead dog’s cock, how fucking dense and oblivious to basic fucking sentience would you have to be to say something this stupid and not immediately dig a 40-foot hole in your garden and throw yourself in until the end of fucking time? Although I guess Braverman has been exposed as a lying, copper-bottomed moron so many times it’s par for the course. Any normal human being would retire and live as a garden gnome in the suburbs after something like this. She’d probably scare off cats planning to shit in your garden, unless they’re fucking immigration obsessives!

Donald Trump has blamed the recent terror attack in New Orleans on illegal migration, warning of ‘criminals coming in’. The perpetrator was a US citizen and army veteran.

Gee, Donald, I bet you’re fucking mortified, aren’t you? Caught out in a falsehood! Why, this could ruin your reputation – maybe even undo all your good work! But you don’t give one fuck, do you? Your mouth is just one gigantic orifice of torrential fucking effluent, a rising fucking tide of bullshit bearing you to the ultimate office! It’s hard to say who’s worse, you, for the unending fucking lies or your supporters, for wanting to be fed them. Actually it’s not. You’re worse, Donnie, because at least the MAGA fuckheads aren’t trying to sell the world’s worst fucking trainers!

Nick Clegg has stepped down from his role at Meta, aka Facebook, after almost seven years.

Nick Clegg. Sir Nick Clegg. Sir Nick Cunting Clegg. The ultimate, toxic, slimy fucking proof that you can never trust a liberal! Rises to fame as the fresh-faced embodiment of a fuckwit’s idea of political integrity, then sells his soul to a social media Satan when his political career tanks under the dead weight of his careerist pointlessness! Next stop, a podcast for gullible centrist fuckwits to tune into avidly! Him and Suella Braverman. Hands across the political divide. Alastair Campbell and Rory Stewart Mk II. Grown-ups in the room. Well you can take your ‘politer politics’ and stick it up your fucking arse. Twat!

Finally, the Gavin & Stacey Christmas finale garnered huge viewing figures for the BBC, with Nessa (Ruth Jones) and Smithy (James Corden) finally getting married.

Well, that was a double tits-up – utterly predictable and completely fucking implausible! I’ll give a golden six-by-three-foot crucifix to anyone who can explain to me why someone like Nessa would carry a fucking torch for a lump of lairy, 90s-facial-haired fuck like Neil, who is basically James Corden because the cunt can’t act. Seriously, he’s Jamie Oliver multiplied by Dave Lee Travis. Still, it sets them up nicely for a one-off special about them getting divorced. If it was realistic it should be on in a fucking fortnight!