Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You can get an escalator up Ben Nevis if you drop enough acid.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

If they did a glory hole for swiss rolls the line would be out of the door. But they won’t because nothing good ever happens does it.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

You buy humane mouse traps off Amazon but don’t notice there’s one letter off. The freak you catch in there is now your responsibility.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

The blue whale might be the world’s biggest mammal but it means nothing if it’s not terrifying. Come on blue whales, fuck something up.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Neither a borrower nor a lender be. Nor, more importantly, a paedo.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Caffé Nero explains that just as there are rewards for coffee loyalty, there are penalties for coffee betrayal. And they saw you at Costa. Now you pay the price.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

You’re not supposed to feed bread to ducks but throw them handfuls of wriggling worms and people look at you funny.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

As Neighbours is over you see an opportunity for a British version. Graham and Sally are refusing to trim their leylandii trees, Martin has parked on the pavement again and down at the pub there’s a fistfight in the car park.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

The game of Pooh Sticks was originally Winnie the Pooh, Piglet and Christopher Robin shitting off a bridge and seeing whose turd won the race. Honest, it’s in the books.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Chumbawumba never told you what to do when you get knocked down and can’t get up again. Though, since it’s been 25 years since their lone hit, they certainly fucking know.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

The guy at the party with the guitar? Twat. The guy at the party with the keytar? Fucking legend.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You’re getting your five fruit and veg a day by eating five large marrows. Technically you’re in the clear but they’re keeping an eye on you.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Rebekah Vardy's new arsehole

WAKING in the gutter, my pillow an empty 1.5 litre bottle of Tesco Imperial Vodka, I surmise to my horror I have fallen back in time to the year 1985.

The streets with their gaudy shopfronts, the crowds in mullets and white socks, the Thatcher-era shame and desperation, all point to the same unavoidable conclusion until I spy town signage and realise I am simply in Bolton.

I hail a passing train and return to London, perusing the newspapers on my journey, where I read that Sir Keir Starmer has sacked a junior frontbencher for attending a picket line and stating that workers be given pay rises in line with inflation, contrary to Labour policy.

John the fucking Baptist’s severed cock on a plate, what the fuck? I mean, if Labour isn’t gonna back labour any more, any fucking chance of giving the name back? Seriously, if as head of the fucking Church of England I set up a Satanist temple in Scotland, I think people might be within their rights to say, ‘Mate, are you sure you’re in the right fucking job? On two counts?’ The trouble with you, Starmer, is you’ve got fucking focus group feedback dangling where your testicles should be! Grow a pair, you cunt!

The Commonwealth Games have commenced in Birmingham, with the opening ceremony extolling the virtues and heritage of Britain’s second city.

Oh for fuck’s sake. We’ve all been to Birmingham. It’s one gigantic fucking precinct! They only built Wolverhampton next door to give it something to look down on! More miles of canals than Venice and all of them full of Greggs wrappers, shopping trolleys and dead kittens in sacks! All anyone wants to do in Birmingham is get the fuck out of the place as fast as possible and you can’t even do that thanks to Spaghetti fucking Junction, which some drivers have been trying and failing to get off since 1972!

I broke off from my opening address to the congregation at midday mass to bring them the tidings that Rebekah Vardy’s libel case against Colleen Rooney had been dismissed. ‘Dearly beloved, you may roll in the aisles,’ I said.

Hahaha! Oh, slap me with Christ’s wet loincloth, let the fucking church bells ring loud and long! What a fucking weapons-grade, copper-bottomed, reference-quality honking moron of the first water Rebekah Vardy is! Your agent’s phone is to the North sea what the fucking monster is to Loch Ness, you realise? They’ll be running boat excursions for tourists to spot the fucker! Don’t leave it here. Even if your rat-faced husband has to keep playing longer than Stanley Matthews to pay your legal bills, please, have another fucking pop. This lawsuit is the only reason half of the people in this fascist toilet country have been carrying on fucking living! Appeal, I beg of you!

Finally Chris O’Shea, boss of British Gas owners Centrica, set to pocket millions in bonuses this year, has told customers struggling to pay their bills they are ‘amazing people’ who ‘make their own decisions as to what’s best for them’.

Mary pegging Joseph, could you be any more of a condescending cunt? ‘Amazing people’, yeah? I bet they’re just like any other bunch of fuckers signed up to a energy supplier: the decent, the boring, the dickish and the outright fucking pricks! Never mind your vacuous platitudes, instead of spunking on gold-plated luxury dog kennels, how about you and the rest of you insanely greedy hogs plough profits into bringing prices down? Because the way it’s fucking going, it’s gonna be cheaper to burn bundles of banknotes this winter than buy gas!