Cripes, the Telegraph’s bigwigs want more predictions from me. This time, none of that Sagittarius nonsense. Once we are free of the bullying EU, dictating our superstitions from Brussels, we can make our own British star signs. So here goes!
Cricket (any year England won the Ashes): Life is all Pimm’s and cucumber sandwiches without the crusts. You will thrive in 2019 because you are well-connected and wealthy. See you at Lord’s old boy.
Drizzle (summer holidays except 1976): You miserable shower, always being a wet blanket and damping down hopes. Brexit will rain on your parade.
Milkman (absent father): What a complete bastard. Your mother took delivery of the wrong sort of cream, and you too will always pop up in the wrong place.
Gooseberry Bush (virgin birth): Your mother claims never to have had (whisper it) ((S.E.X.)). As a result, your repressed passion and closeted homosexually will lead to you embracing fascism instead.
Stork (embarrassed parents): More accurately, stalk. More precisely, your father’s stalk. You are an utter knob and will champion the cause of some unworthy loser like Tommy Robinson.
Yuppie (1980s): Irresponsible free marketer now in seedy middle age. With all the depth of a dried-up puddle and your glory days long behind you, jump on the Brexit bandwagon and push.
Mockney (1990s): Posh twat pretending to be working class, you will revert to type and thank your lucky stars that Daddy is a billionaire.
Expert (2000-2005): In your teens, you know everything except why nobody understands you. Go and do your homework before all the schools are shut down.
Dying Light (born before the Queen came to the throne): Rage is all you have left, now you are sans teeth, sans hearing, et cetera. Avoid pineapple at all costs.
Boris (my birthday!!!!!!): You’re the best. You will be Prime Minister! Yay!
Gosh, that was fun! See you again when I need another Brexit Dividend!