Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

You decide to add a third Michelin star to the barbecue in your back garden, and by star you mean tyre.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

Boris won’t be forgotten. Every time you do a trump, then another, smaller, wetter trump, you’ll remember him.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Be yourself: everyone else is already taken. Or be Batman, if you can swing that.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

Your past lives include: farmer, farmer, dairy farmer, rice farmer, maize farmer, clearing rocks for agricultural land, farmer. But for some pretty diverse and exciting civilisations.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

Catnip is a Class A drug in the cat world. You’re basically forcing them to freebase cocaine. Consider that next time you buy them a little treat.

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Remember when a phishing scam meant telling a harmless lie about a 50-pound carp?

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

You make a huge improvement to your golf game this week by taking MDMA. Your round’s 42 over par, but the experience is markedly better.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a pet gecko called Gary.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

Do people who believe in the power of homeopathy still piss in the swimming pool?

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

You can hold a crocodile’s mouth shut with one hand, enabling you to give him the wanker sign with the other.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

My dad went out for a pack of cigarettes twenty years ago. Come to think of it, he’s been loads of times before and since. Loves them.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

Okay, wow, really sorry, my mistake. I did not know those were your genitals.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Boris bloody Johnson buying a kettle

WAKING upside down, dangling from one of the abbey bells, my foot tethered to the clapper with my ceremonial velvet sash, I make a mental note.

As I dispatch plume after plume of vomit onto the medieval tiled floor far below, I resolve not to commence imbibing so early in the afternoons, and further to then cease doing so within 72 hours.

Crying out for assistance, I am untethered by a team of clerics and restored to my chambers where I read that Boris Johnson has advised those struggling with bills to buy a new kettle, an outlay which could save them ten pounds.

Saint Peter’s doubting dick, are you fucking shitting me? You must be. You’ve been shitting us all, these past couple of years. You only became Prime Minister for a bet with your old Eton chum Sir Thomas ‘Todger’ Broughton that you could stay in office for two fucking years before they threw you out, the same way you get thrown out of everything you venture into, steaming cunt that you are! It’s just one long fucking chortle to you, isn’t it? The pandemic, the cost-of-living crisis – a million tragedies is just a trigger to set your oily jowls and fatuous lips quivering with mirth! I hope you end your days naked, suspended from a lamppost, entrails spilling from your slit belly, I seriously fucking do!

Lord Alan Sugar has been venting his opinions on employees who choose to work from home. He considers them shirkers, more likely to be watching TV than being productive.

You really are a pubic-faced pillar of piss. How the fuck did you make your fortune, you silly twat? Try to think further than you can jerk your fucking knee. Home computers, that’s right! You were the very fucking manufacturer of the instrument that enabled people to work from home and now you’re shitting on the idea? It’s like that Dyson dick complaining about people using hand dryers when they could just use paper towels! Arsehole!

Former Labour MP and ardent Brexiter Kate Hoey has weighed in on the energy crisis. Simply wear jumpers, she advises.

Or failing that, become an MP and make an enormous fucking six figure expenses claim so that the fucking taxpayer has to foot the bill and wear jumpers to make ends meet! How the fuck did a reactionary, Brexit-loving, Farage-fondling fucking hypocrite like you ever end up in the Labour party? It’s a Mandelson-sized mystery, that’s for sure!

Finally, the Festival of Brexit has not been quite the success envisaged, having achieved just 0.36 per cent of the attendance of 66 million that they had anticipated. Organisers have blamed the politicisation of the event.

Yeah well, I fucking get it. Church attendance figures are right down because the vicars keep banging on about fucking religion, which bores the tits off people but what are you gonna do, eh? A church is a fucking church and a Festival of Brexit’s a Festival of fucking Brexit! No getting around it! I mean, I get the gist of what you’re saying, we could have had a brilliant Festival of Brexit if it weren’t for Brexit! Could have all gone differently, and we could have had a Festival of Thank Fuck We Didn’t Listen To Those Lying Cunts Johnson, Hoey And Farage! But it fucking didn’t, did it?