Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

‘Mary Magdalene wasn’t really Jesus’s girlfriend. They were more like fuck buddies,’ you explain, to your Sunday School class.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Where exactly do you cross over the line from ‘sex enthusiast’ to ‘pervert’? Asking for a brother-in-law.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Whenever you hear the term ‘blended family’ you can’t help but imagine them all in a food processor.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Why would anyone like to see a snake charmed anyway? Would you watch a lion being chatted up? A bird beguiled?

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Americans think British people all have bad teeth. Not true. Some guys you know down the flat-roof pub don’t have any at all.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Chalk and cheese aren’t that different. You could mistake one from the other from eight feet. Chalk and fire have far less in common.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Your gravestone will have two words on it: lovely, and jubbly.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Amazing to think that every single thing in your home and life would look like a load of cheap nasty shit the moment you won the lottery.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

A pub in Edinburgh contains eight cavemen, 13 Smurfs, nine angels, six soldiers, five men in women’s underwear and a pantomime cow. Too late you spot the absence of a sign above the door: ‘No Hens or Stags’.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Once you read a book, but then they made a film of it. You’re not falling for that again.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

If the shoe fits, you can’t be in TK Maxx.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Congratulations! You’re the newest member of Death’s Mariachi Band!

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... that pisspot Priti Patel

WAKING up in a Hell’s Angel clubhouse, my head thumping like the timpani section in Wagner’s Die Walküre, I taste petrol on my lips.

It seems following an ecumenical reception I entered a friendly challenge with a passing fellowship of bikers as to who could drain the tank of a Triumph Bonneville in a single draught, and emerged victorious.

Stepping over the comatose bodies of my leather-clad friends, I borrow a Harley Fat Boy and return to my chambers, there to learn that home secretary Priti Patel’s attempt to deport asylum seekers to Rwanda was unsuccessful but she has vowed to fight on.

Beelzebub’s big dog’s cockstick, are you the most twisted, smirking pellet of pure, uncut, evil who ever haunted the fucking House Of Commons? If I performed a fucking exorcism on you, you’d melt like dogshit in rain! I speak with all the fucking solemnity and seriousness of my high ecclesiastical office when I say that there are serial killers who would have made a better, more competent and compassionate fucking Home Secretary than you. I can’t think of any who wouldn’t! Brady, Sutcliffe, Shipman, West? Nope! You are, beyond doubt, the most morally rancid, festering, loathsome, thick, useless, poisonously excremental, scumsucking cunt in government!

Elton John is currently playing his Farewell tour, which has seen him play dates in the UK and across the world.

Farewell tour, eh? Is this the same fucking farewell tour as you played in 1977, 1982, 1983, 1977, 1990, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2006, 2008, 2009, 2012, 2014, 2017, 2018, 2019, 2020 and 2021? And that you’ll still be playing in 2023, 2024, 2025, 2026 right up until 2040? Is there anyone in this world less capable of actually fucking off for good than you? Why do you carry on? You can’t sing, you’ve lost the ability to use two thirds of the letters in the alphabet when you do, and you look an absolute twat. How much did you pay for that fucking wig, and why didn’t you just buy half a dozen mopheads from Poundstretcher?

Question Time came from Newcastle this week, a town I have visited many times in my capacity as God’s messenger. It featured audience contributions from a diverse range of middle-aged white men with facial hues from rosé to brick red.

Tear me a new hole and fuck me, why is it still called Question Time when it should be Cunt Time? In my address at Newcastle Cathedral I told them straight: you’ve got your fair share of shirt-dodging pricks up here but nothing as noxious as spittle-spraying carpet-chewing Daily Express-eating hellspawn! Face it BBC, in your attempt to find a ‘balance’ between kissing Boris Johnson’s arse and sucking his cock, you deliberately seek these fuckers out!

Finally, it seems that billionaire Frederick Barclay, aged 87, of the Barclay brothers who took ownership of the Telegraph, faces the ‘terrifying’ prospect of prison for non-payment of a divorce settlement.

Good! Fucking great! The church is all about spreading the good news and this is the best news I’ve heard since BoJo caught COVID! Same as I did then, I’ve ordered church bells to be rung across fucking England! I hope they imprison you, Barclay, and I hope a 20 stone tattooed psychopath makes you his bride. I hope you get done five times a day, they way you and your prick of a brother fucked the country via the Daily fucking Telegraph!