Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You want a lady in the streets, a freak in the bed and a fully qualified person doing your dental work.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Remember the marvellous occasion of the Diamond Jubilee, where the very heavens themselves demonstrated their feelings about the Queen by pissing it down throughout?

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

There’s not a bad bone in your body, except a fascist-leaning left tibia.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You’ve never bothered to find out if you’ve got a peanut allergy. Hardly worth the risk, is it, when on the one hand you could die and on the other you get a peanut?

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

The fact that you still have plans this weekend suggests cancel culture actually hasn’t gone far enough.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

It goes: Carry On Doctor, Carry On Camping, Carry On At Your Convenience, Carry On At The Miners’ Strike, Carry On Raving, Carry On 9/11 and Carry On Credit Crunching. The later ones aren’t great.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

‘This would make a lovely wedding venue’, you think, entering one of those massive Tescos on two floors.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

If you put one of those Guylian shells up to your ear you can hear a man called Toby say ‘Oh I shouldn’t… But I will.’

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

It must be so hard for the Queen asking ‘What do you do?’ all day, knowing it’s a question that she could never adequately answer.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Surely there’s an opportunity off the back of the true crime boom to write about some made-up crimes. Imagine the possibilities.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Tuna must be livid when they see cans of tuna with ‘dolphin friendly’ on them. One rule for the inspirational meme favourites, another for the humble yellowfin.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

We’ve just seen Piers Morgan squeeze an avocado too hard then put it back.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... the Sue sodding Grey report

GAINING consciousness in a skip, having failed to reach my chambers after a wine-drinking contest with Cardinal Nichols turned ugly, I urinate for a full 22 minutes then head home.

Taking up a news periodical, I note that prime minister Boris Johnson has been ‘humbled’ by Partygate revelations but has done nothing wrong and feels it is time to move on.

Yeah, I fucking bet you want to move on, you lying lump of cuntspaff! Leave your mess, let some peasant clean it up, move on to make the next one! Boris Johnson goes on the piss before his weekly meeting with the Queen, projectile vomits in her face, has learned lessons and now moves on. Boris Johnson sets fire to the trousers of a waiter as he’s bending over to pick up a thrown fork, makes remorseful face, moves on. Boris Johnson drops his trousers and has a wank while visiting a children’s school in Didcot, says he broke no laws, moves on. Boris Johnson fucks a dead penguin, claims she ambushed his dick, moves on. It never fucking ends with you, does it, you pelican-faced fucking sack of baboon’s semen!

I was alerted by one of my minions to switch on the television set to watch last week’s Panorama as it was likely to be so explosive as to bring down the Prime Minister. Indeed, Laura Kuenssberg pulled no punches as she described Boris Johnson as the ‘most gifted politician of his generation’.

Holy Mary Magdalene’s fucking silver dildo, that’s fucking sticking it to him, isn’t it? Johnson must have shat himself with relief when he realised you were presenting this, only for you to come tumbling out from his fucking arsecheeks and give him a ‘Cooeee!’ The fucking stenographer-in-chief, first in her fucking sixth-form in taking down dictation! Most gifted politician of his generation, my squamous scrotum! Even you must have blanched a bit when he read that to you down the fucking phone but you went with it all the same, you shower of sycophantic shite!

The singer Bob Dylan, famous for his folk and protest songs, turned 81 last week. In light of this, I was asked to write a piece for the Church Gazette, reflecting on the longevity of this noted musician. Here is a short extract.

Brazilian-wax my scraggy arse, has any one fucking man been responsible for a bigger mountain of horseshit than Bob fucking Dylan? If he were a busker outside Tottenham Court Road station, you’d take his fucking cap and pocket the 7p he’d made as fucking compensation for the five seconds you were forced to endure his voice like piss from a cracked jug! As for your doggerel lyrics, ‘Jewels and binoculars hang from the head of the mule’? No they don’t! What the fuck are you on about? You try hanging binoculars on a mule and they’d kick you in the bollocks! This is the shit I’m talking about! You’re just lucky you were born into a generation of acid-fried, gullible fucking airheads because any other era you’d have been laughed into the sea for the talentless cunt you are!

Finally, following a tragic bereavement in the family of one of my parishioners, I was asked by my secretary if I might pass on a handwritten message to her, offering my thoughts and prayers.

You know what? No. I’ve heard those words about a hundred times this week and let me tell you, right from the fucking top, thoughts and prayers have no fucking effect whatsoever. If they did, the world wouldn’t be one big bloody ocean of shit, would it? I mean thoughts, what does that even mean? And prayers, well, I’ve spent a lifetime trying to nudge the fucking man upstairs and let me tell you, you might as well throw your money down a well as try to get Him involved. Between you and me, it’s an absolute load of bollocks but it’s my job. Meanwhile, fuck your thoughts and fuck your prayers, do something that actually fucking works!