Your astrological week ahead, with Psychic Bob

Aries, March 21st–April 19th

The Chancellor will make a special exception and help you out with the cost-of-living crisis, so long as you get ‘Crazy for Kwasi’ tattooed on your right arse cheek.

Taurus, April 20th–May 20th

You didn’t mind all that fuss for the Queen. You’re just not prepared to go through it all again when Rupert Murdoch dies.

Gemini, May 21st–June 21st

Sometimes you weep at how much nicer Britain would be with red squirrels.

Cancer, June 22nd–July 22nd

A baby kangaroo is called a Joey. A sarcastic baby kangaroo is called a Chandler.

Leo, July 23rd–August 22nd

God, remember when J.Lo was considered to have a big arse? Before the Arse Wars really started?

Virgo, August 23rd–September 22nd

Go to one of those restaurants with live lobsters and select around fifteen of them. Now order whatever you want and don’t pay. What the fuck are they going to do, fight you and your lobster legion?

Libra, September 23rd–October 22nd

Sometimes things just fall off the earth, tumble into space and are never seen again. So yeah, I guess that’s what happened with your bike.

Scorpio, October 23rd–November 22nd

Michael Sheen’s inspiring speech to the Welsh football team went viral, but your rant about Bristol Rovers that you filmed while sitting on the toilet hasn’t. It really is a lottery.

Sagittarius, November 22nd–December 21st

It’s time you started thinking about the bigger picture. Specifically the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

Capricorn, December 22nd–January 19th

People say rattlesnakes are sneaky but they’re literally the least sneaky snake going. Their whole thing is warning you. It’s in the name.

Aquarius, January 20th–February 18th

To say someone’s as ‘thick as two short planks’ is in itself thick, because the length of a plank is no guide as to its depth, you ignorant bastard.

Pisces, February 19th–March 20th

You’re told by a lover that you’re hung like a donkey! But for you, a blue whale, this is a hurtful insult.

The Archbishop of Canterbury on... Kwasi cocking Kwarteng

RETURNING to consciousness face-down on the pavement just yards from the front door of Lambeth Palace, golden key in my outstretched hand, I reflect on just what a bender that was.

After a busy two weeks commemorating Her Majesty, I joined in sorrow with a delegation from the Little Sisters of the Poor and while Catholicism and I have our differences, I have a renewed respect for their capacity to imbibe spirituous liquor.

I gather myself and return to my chambers, where I learn that Kwasi Kwarteng has cut the top rate of income tax in an act of charity to 629,000 super-rich who will now be some £30 billion better off. It is the Chancellor’s belief this money will ‘trickle down’.

Christ’s cock on a rotating kebab skewer, there’s as much chance of that money trickling down to the poor as there is a fucking modicum of intelligence trickling down into Liz Truss’s skull! It’ll trickle fucking nowhere except to an offshore account! Is that what you were laughing about at the Abbey? ‘Hee hee, wait till they say the priceless twat’s trick I’ve got lined up for the fucking mini-budget!’ Jesus, if you were in the fire brigade and turned up to a fucking blaze, would your first thought be to direct the hoses at the nearby duckpond for a top-up? I’ll give you three weeks in office, you insane cunt!

The Labour Party conference is set to begin in Liverpool this Sunday. While the press officers of certain trade unions have been denied passes, reporters from the Sun newspaper have experienced no such inconvenience.

Great move there, Starmer. Read the fucking city, you perpetually-startled, dough-faced twat! Seriously, why the fuck did you choose Liverpool? It’s full of left-wingers, the people you’ve been fighting your entire pitiful time as party leader! It’s like Putin hosting a party conference in Khiv! You’re not fucking well liked there, you dead-eyed fucking toady! Last time you showed your face there you got an absolute bollocking from some old woman – you were lucky she didn’t drag you across her lap and spank your arse – and unless you’ve got security ten deep you’ll get worse this time, you fuckfaced streak of shite!

Liam Gallagher turned 50 years old this week, and pronounced himself ‘buzzing’ to still be here.

Liam, you’re not 50. You may have lived 50 fucking years, but you’re neither mature, reflective, or a little wiser with age. You’re fucking 13, hanging out down the precinct, monkeying around in a fucking kagoule like the slack-jawed, lairy, rickets-walking cunt that you are! 50! Fuck off!

Finally, Vladimir Putin has introduced ‘partial’ mobilisation in an attempt to improve the fortunes of his ‘special military operation’ in Ukraine.

You’ve fucking blown it, haven’t you, you inside-out-faced prick! You can only find your arse with both hands because it’s been handed to you on a fucking plate by Ukraine! I bet Luxembourg’s thinking it could take you after the shambles you’ve put up so far! You’ve got the world’s most useless army, equipment the military equivalent of broken fax machines in the age of the internet and a population that would rather live as fucking rodents in a neighbouring Baltic state than fight for whatever you think you’re doing, nobody knows or cares. The sooner you’re hanging by your fucking gonads in Red Square, the fucking better!