Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

There’s a stage at Glastonbury that never closes, a pocket dimension where nobody ages and the partying never stops, only accessible from our world when the festival’s on. You intend to go but end up watching Josh Ludlow in the Funkingham Palace tent instead.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

If we really want children to learn about responsibility we shouldn’t let them win a goldfish at the fair. They should win an Alsatian.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Is there any evidence that men get better at sex the more they do it?

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

You’re one of the few conspiracy theorists who believe that the moon landing happened, but that the second astronaut wasn’t called Buzz Aldrin. His real name? Burt Alderman.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

You explain to your 14-year-old that being taught As You Like It for GCSE is essentially a vaccine against Shakespeare, ensuring he will never suffer from the Bard’s work in life.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Done is better than perfect, particularly when it comes to cooking pork.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

If they could see how Glastonbury ended up, those druids would probably have fucked the whole thing off.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Shame they couldn’t get the rights for any of Elvis’s music for this new movie, and instead he’s performing the back catalogue of Avril Lavigne.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

‘I’ll have what she’s having!’ you say, pointing at the woman in the restaurant who’s suffering a severe allergic reaction to whatever she’s just been served.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

On your first day in jail go up to the biggest guy in the yard and ask him to lift you up like in Dirty Dancing.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Are you actually sad to see me go, automated email unsubscribe message?

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

If only the Queen had started doing videos with British icons like Bond and Paddington earlier. We could have had her on Morecambe & Wise, on Only Fools and Horses, getting spiked with acid on The Word. Fuck it, we’ve got CGI, let’s do this.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Boris Johnson keeping sodding going

AWAKING after a late evening with a delegation of Belgian Trappist monks, experts in brewing, I realise the bed I repose in is for once my own and summon a junior cleric.

I instruct him on my weeks itinerary, pass him some paperwork to process, and ask him the further favour of sawing off my throbbing head to end this hangover. As he departs in search of a toolbox, I switch on the radio to learn that Boris Johnson has resolved to ‘keep going’ despite Conservative losses in two by-elections.

Kiss the fossilised member of John the Baptist, you bulbous wanker! There’s the fucking door, being held open by the entire fucking country, which don’t you fuck off out of it? Face it, everyone hates you. The Tory party hates you, your wife hates you, your family hates you, your kids hate you – the ones we know about and the ones we don’t – your entire fucking cabinet hates you. With the wretched exception of the world’s worst person, Nadine Dorries, and if you were to transmogrify into a bottle of Chardonnay, she’d drink you up and piss you away! Go! Go! In the name of Mother Mary’s tits, go! I know it’d be like Hitler being replaced by fucking Himmler or Goebbels but just fucking fucking fucking fuck off!

Rupert Murdoch and Jerry Hall have sadly announced that their love story is at an end and they plan to divorce.

Ah, do you hear even the medieval saints in their stone tombs weeping at this news? Fuck me bow-legged, what were you thinking in the first place, Jerry? That he was actually gonna die soon and all those hideous reptile shags would be worth it? He’s not going to die, he’s fucking Rupert Murdoch! The cunt’ll be around in 100 years time, like one of those fucking South Sea island giant tortoises! And you’re gonna have to go back to advertising Bovril or marry Henry Kissinger!

Rowan Atkinson, the ‘rubber-faced’ comedian who has lampooned men of the cloth such as myself, has complained of a ‘cancel culture’ and that it is the job of comedians to ‘offend’.

No it fucking isn’t. It is the job of comedy to be funny, something you haven’t managed in about three fucking decades! Cancelled, are we? Well, if everything I said got featured prominently across all fucking media, cancel me right now! What’s your problem? Wanna go back to doing your blackface Indian waiter monologue with the funny South Asian accent and no one will let you? You’re a useless, ossified, own-anus-dwelling-in prick and since that’s intended as very offensive indeed, no doubt you’re laughing your bollocks off at it right now!

Finally, Kate Burley tweeted to the affect that she had managed to make Mick Lynch, General Secretary of the National Union of Rail, Maritime and Transport Workers, look ‘flustered’ when she interviewed him on Sky News this week.

Laugh my socks off? I nearly laughed my cock off when I read that! Your thick fucking head near-exploded in a indignant mess of falsetto hysteria when he declined to go along with your fucking sub-tabloid ‘violent Marxists waging class war’ bullshit that patently bore no relationship with what we could actually see ten yards behind him on the fucking picket line! That plate he handed you had your sorry arse on it! Fucking own it, no other cunt wants it!