Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st – April 19th

Don’t worry if you didn’t get the A-levels you wanted. The world needs coke dealers.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

How do you think the original cheese fondue guys felt when they came out with chocolate fondue? Like fucking mugs.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Why does your spam email think you have erectile dysfunction but also need notification of up to three MILF fuckbuddys in your area per day? Surely it’s one or the other.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Ultimately, regarding everything young people say, like and think is a load of bullshit is just way easier. It’s a cost-benefit decision.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Jeff Bezos forces his employees to watch videos of him doing incredible gymnastics routines, so they gain respect for him. What he doesn’t tell them is that they’re all done on greenscreen. He can’t even muster a cartwheel.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

People slag off your battering ram, but it’s opened a lot of doors for you.

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Excuse me, you’re in my seat. No I fucking won’t just sit in that empty one over there, I reserved this one so I’d have a perfect view of both luggage rack and toilet.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

The shipping forecast on Radio 4 always gently lulls you off to sleep. Which, as you’re the captain of a container ship, is a real fucking problem.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

As a child, you misheard ‘money can’t buy you happiness’ as ‘mummy can’t buy you happiness’. Which is why you’ve always been closer to your dad.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

Ninjas and their throwing stars were massive in the 80s, but you never see them at the Absolute 80s Weekender at Minehead Butlins, opening for Go West.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

Do cat-calling construction workers charge a call-out fee?

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You travel in time to Berlin, October 1932 and present Hitler with the missing bollock he’d never got over. He resigns, the Nazis are finished, World War Two never happens. Best of all it was Laurence Fox’s nut you gave him.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Jeremy Clarkson's Arse-Levels

WAKING in intensive care, following a WhatsApp challenge from His All Holiness Bartholomew I of Constantinople that I could read the Ryan Giggs poem to the end without hurling, I regret my naivety.

Still, I made it to the seventh line before vomiting the contents of my stomach, a pint of bile and my stomach lining, which on reflection seems a moral victory. While recuperating I catch up on my periodicals where I learn that Boris Johnson has, during the cost of living crisis dominating the late days of his tenure, taken not one but two holidays.

Holy Christ’s raging fucking erection, if they cut your belly open it wouldn’t be fucking entrails that came tumbling out, it’d be a steaming, slithering mass of brazen fucking gall! Holiday? Holiday from fucking what? You fought tooth-and-nail to keep this job over the summer because you wanted to carry on being Prime Minister the way an eight-year-old boy plays at being a fucking engine driver. And then you spend it sprawled on your arse dozing off sangria, like the lazy, greedy, pathologically shameless, oblivious cessmonger of a cunt that you are! Nero fiddled while Rome burned; you couldn’t even be arsed to pick up the fucking instrument!

I read that Jacob Rees-Mogg has decreed that guest speakers at the Cabinet Office will have their social media accounts vetted to check whether they have ever criticised government policy.

Well, you ghastly human pinstripe, that’s me out for a fucking start! Just take a look at my last few sermons, including Concerning Ms Suella Braverman’s Being A Twisted Streak Of Diseased Pigshit, Reflections Upon Dominic Raab And What An Ocean-Going Horse’s Cock He Is and Touching Upon Why Liz Truss Should Dip Her Empty Head In A Fucking Woodchipper! Jacob Rees-Mogg: proof that fascism doesn’t come goosestepping in helmet and jackboots but wafting weedily in from an old fucking Beano cartoon in a top hat and with no fucking chin!

Jeremy Clarkson has, as is his wont, has consoled those with poor A-level results not to worry, since he now drives expensive cars and holidays on a boat.

See, this is the thing with you, Clarkson – you actually think your life is some sort of fucking success! You actually fucking believe that. There you are, perched atop the totem pole of your wankdom, a tall pillar of ossified fucking spunk, universally derided except by other would-be Alpha-wankers, spouting verbal exhaust fumes and vapour trails into the fucking atmosphere and imagine that you have been of some fucking good in this world! As part of my ecclesiastical duties, I had the privilege of addressing a group of sixth formers at a South London Church of England school. I told them most solemnly: ‘Try your hardest at A-level because the last thing you want is to end up is being a thick, revolting, ironed-jeaned pollutant like Jeremy fucking Clarkson!

Finally, it seems that Amol Rajan has been appointed as presenter of University Challenge.

What is it with this fucking ubiquitous fucking creep? This arse-dwelling fucking hack? It’d be a fucking challenge to him to spell the word ‘university’ but here he fucking is, everywhere, like all three Dimblebys simultaneously! Never mind A-levels, Rajan is proof that if you suck corporate media cock relentlessly until your gag reflex vanishes and your tonsils atrophy, you too can be any cunt you fucking want to be!