Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

Feeling down? It might be time to put down that bourbon, wipe your stubbled face with the back of your hand and think outside the box of Polaroids you keep of your sexy ex-wife who died in mysterious circumstances.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

This week you decide to cut out the middleman, put glasses, a moustache and a little hat on your cock, and set that as your Tinder profile picture.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

The index of your autobiography begins: anal intrusions 158-192, 205-280, anal operations 281-365, anal probes 402-598, anal prolapse 374-390, anal warts 120. And you expect people to read the whole thing?

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

It’s time to come out of your shell this week. Because people are starting to talk about the fact you live in a shell.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Mercury is in retrograde. Mars is in negative arrears. Saturn is in the BNP.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Thank you for submitting your craft ale. We regret that craft ale is not just normal ale with glitter in and lollipop sticks glued on the glass.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

You’re romantically incompatible with emotional water signs like Pisces. That’s simple fact. So supporting her through the pregnancy would be wasting everyone’s time.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

You realise something crucial is missing in your life this week when you find yourself actually seriously reading your fucking horoscope.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

This week you’ll really drop the ball and end up looking like a f**king idiot in front of all your competitors at the Annual Testicle Cupping Championship.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Disappointment this week when you realise we’re all made out of stardust, not Starbursts.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

What goes around comes around, so if you’ve missed your exit on the M25, just keep going until you start seeing signs for Watford again.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Panic ensues on Wednesday when you wake up transformed into a monstrous insect, like in Kafka’s Metamorphosis. Calm returns when you remember that you have always, in fact, been a huge insect. Dust for breakfast again.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Bono's arsehole poem

MY MIND much on the travails of Ukraine, I learn that U2’s Bono, once pictured posing cheerily with Vladimir Putin, has written a limerick-style verse about the situation in the country.

It commences: ‘Oh, Saint Patrick he drove out the snakes/With his prayers but that’s not all it takes’ and concludes ‘Ireland’s sorrow and pain/Is now the Ukraine/And Saint Patrick’s name now Zelensky’.

Fuck me till the Saints rise from the tombs and tell me to keep the fucking noise down, what boss-eyed, windy, misty-bollocked fucking verbiage is this? Are you sitting so high up there like a fucking goblin on your perch of fucking self-assurance that you think you can pull off raw shite like this and get a respectful round of applause? This is a fucking serious situation, we need rhymes from you thrown in like we need a fucking random napalm attack! What you need in your life is a bloke with a fucking stick to club you on the head once an hour, on the fucking hour, saying ‘YOU-ARE-A-TWAT!’

Excellent news as Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe has been released from Iran, where her prison sentence was extended thanks to the bumbling intervention of then-Foreign Minister Boris Johnson.

Tell you fucking what, Johnson, if you’ve a fucking functioning brain cell left underneath that blonde thatch of fucking cluelessness, you’ll fucking resist your natural fucking temptation to move in for a fucking photo-op with this woman and try and get in on the fucking glory. And if you do, I’d advise you to wear an armour-plated fucking jockstrap because she is well within her fucking rights to kick you squarely and repeatedly in the fucking bollocks till you squeal like the fucking lazy, selfish, incompetent fucking hog-boy you are, you life-ruining cunt!

It’s Red Nose Day, but Comic Relief’s bi-annual festival of charitable fun has been marred by the withdrawal of both Kylie Minogue and Zoe Ball due to COVID.

Jesus shit on me from a tree, is this fucking cavalcade of aging cock still going? Are kids who’d frankly be doing fucking maths still being forced to dress up like cunts to join in the annual compulsory fucking enthusiasm? Yep, we get it, we Brits are a wacky bunch who’d rather sit in a fucking bathtub of beans to raise £5 for charity than vote for fucking political parties who’d routinely raise taxes on the fucking rich so we didn’t have to lose our fucking Friday nights once every two years watching a fucking newsreader twerking! Fuck off! Comedy hasn’t fucking cured anything – let fucking Tragedy have a fucking turn! Tragic Relief: at least fucking David Walliams wouldn’t get a fucking look-in!

Finally, it seems that the Catholic church has banned a visit by a gay children’s author, Simon James Green, who had been due to speak and sign books on Monday at The John Fisher School in Purley, a voluntary-aided faith school overseen by the Catholic archdiocese of Southwark.

I tell you what, you have to be tough as fucking tits to be an Archbishop these days, with so much fucking sin and shit in the world and some of the fucking unholiest cunts who ever trod God’s green earth to fucking rebuke. But this is just acting the absolute fucking stupid-hatted twat! That’s left footers for you fucking all over! It’s the fucking 21st century! We’re all fucking using rubber johnnies, including most of your fucking Catholic flock! And we’ve bigger fish to fucking fry than an innocuous fucking children’s author, you bigoted bunch of shits! And the Catholic church, of all fucking institutions, fretting about the supposed abuse of fucking kids is like fucking Sweeney Todd worrying about fucking health and safety in the fucking meat pie business!