Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

All this really drives home that Charles isn’t even going to manage a Silver Jubilee, doesn’t it? Poor prick will be lucky to make Tin.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Bunting is probably the rudest sounding way to say little flags. ‘Bunting.’ Your mum says it instead of swearing.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

In Event Of Emergency, Don’t Stand Here Reading This Fucking Sign.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Every time a bell rings an angel gets their wings. There are angels with as many as 24 sets of wings because of the number of takeaways you order.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Frozen peas have all the nutrients of fresh ones, plus you can kill a bird with them.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Realistically the queen will only go platinum once. But Master P has gone platinum six times, so who should really be on the back of the twenty quid note?

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

In the next Terminator movie he’s just settled down. Met a nice biker dude, they run a classic car garage, the two of them sit holding hands in a swing on the Monterey coast.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Sunset are beautiful, but does it really have to take all fucking day to get to one?

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Cats start with nine lives, but can get more by collecting 100 coins.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

You’re just doing it for the ‘gram. But in your case the ‘doing it’ is being spitroasted, and the ‘gram’ is a small amount of heavily stepped-on cocaine.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

James Bond reads the letter and his eyes narrow to angry slits. ‘You have contracted a sexually transmitted infection. You have a duty to inform all partners of the last 12 months.’

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You’re such a boring boyfriend you’d give Taylor Swift writers’ block.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Her twatting Majesty

FOLLOWING an inebriated altercation with a Songs of Praise runner – these things frequently happen in the ‘rough and tumble’ of religious broadcasting – I wake in a cell.

Leaving the Bishop of Ely to settle my bail, I repair to a BP garage for coffee and to appraise myself of the day’s current affairs. It seems Sir Keir Starmer has announced that it is our ‘patriotic duty’ to celebrate Her Majesty The Queen’s Platinum Jubilee.

The Father, the Son and the Holy Arsehole, of all the grovelling, greasy, sycophantic, pinstriped pricks ever to lead what’s laughingly called the fucking ‘Labour’ party, you are by a shitty stick the greasiest! Even fucking Boris Johnson wouldn’t come out with as nauseating a dollop of fawning toad stew! Who the fuck are you trying to impress? I’ll tell you this, flagshagging Telegraph readers who play the national anthem during sex with their wives may be a bunch of psychotic, gasket-blowing nutters but they know a fucking creep when they see one and that’s exactly what you are, you fraudulent cunt!

Van Morrison has been in the news this week, as his long-running dispute with Northern Ireland ministers over public health information continues.

Fuck off, Morrison, you surly, piggy-eyed fucking rhinoceros’s turd in human shape! Not content with being the rudest cunt who ever walked God’s earth facing old age and utter irrelevancy, you’ve decided the world needs your own personalised methane of toxic, death-dealing misinformation! When you die they should perform medical experiments on your body just to see how one fat prick could be pumped with so much fucking poison!

Returning to the Platinum Jubilee, I feel we should pay tribute to Her Majesty the Queen, who has reigned over us since 1952, and with whom I have had the pleasure of exchanging full and frank views on a number of occasions over the years.

A joyless, frigid misanthrope whose main loves are horses and paedophiles, indeed whose ideal companion would be a paedophile horse! A parasite whose job it is to sit atop a shitheap of privilege and make sure every cunt in this country knows their fucking place! Someone whose ‘service’ applies to fuck all except waving begrudgingly from a golden carriage delivering platitudes like fucking fake pearls in a monotone so flat it sounds like David Attenborough’s got a fucking gun to her head! She didn’t like it when I exchanged that view with her, I can fucking tell you!

Finally, it seems that Sunday, the main day of the Jubilee celebrations, is likely to be marred by heavy rainfall.

You know what? Fuck all that stuff about prayer being a load of old futile bollocks. Because I fucking well prayed for this one. Prayed my bollocks off for it, I did. And for once, just once, I got answered! I hope it’s a fucking monsoon, the very wrathful and plentiful urine of God, sweeping away every last trestle table of cakes and urn of weak tea, every last row of shit bunting, and the red, white and blue-hatted old folk waving their feeble little fucking flags. You’ve had 70 years, piss off!