Great trumpeting elephants, tiny turnip-headed creatures! It's nasty November and the game's afoot! The game of vile and bitter prognostications to be precise! Pin back your ovine ears! Prepare to fill the gap between them with the worst bout of cosmic lunacy since little Alfred Nobel was given a chemistry set by his adoring pater, a gentleman noted for generosity but sadly lacking in foresight. To his credit must go the fact that peace and explosive devices are forever associated in the minds of the lunatics that inhabit the third stone from the Sun of a tiny solar system in the backwaters of a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. Here endeth the cant! Here beginneth the rant!
Last time, things took a turn for the worst, little ram type things. Though surrounded by sycophants, knee deep in dosh and feted for the success of a million-selling disc, THE SHAG-RI-LA SHOUT, still did you stumble into the blackest pit of despair as the joy of sex faded from your body. Eek! Yes, indeed, the very halls of hedonism seemed to eject your hideous hormonal firework displays, turning the customary bright flashes and explosions to a numb and leaden state of unfeeling and inactivity.
A ghastly New Moon comes in gloomy Scorpio, blighting your solar eighth house with a square from grim Saturn as he hobnobs in your solar fifth house of pleasure with a predictably miserable demeanour. You lie abed, surrounded by all the trappings of mortal sin and yet you feel nothing. Mischievous Mercury gropes the private parts of Uranus, the idiot god, and you complain of your parlous plight. Vamping Venus slithers into lugubrious Capricorn and professional persons of depressing demeanour consider your affliction to no avail, finally walking away, shaking their heads and pocketing sizable fees. Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds and, though circumstances promise everything, you feel only the iron grip of despair.
Great gods alive and dead, my tiny ovine types! You may be losing the will to live! For, as vamping Venus indulges in unseemly congress with jolly Jupiter, the party rages. Sycophants and hangers-on seem content to expend both themselves and your money in pursuit of the mindless pleasures you can no longer enjoy. Gadzooks! How frustrating!
By the gods, what's this? Not more raucous heavenly racket to puncture the eardrums, surely! But it is! Mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse motion in silly Sagittarius. This brings a bevy of foreign experts to your bedside to consider your condition. But all they do is argue incomprehensibly among themselves, making you feel worse than you already do. Egad! As the Full Moon blazes in cloddish Taurus, you simply pay them to go away. The great Sol Invicti grinds his way into addlepate Sagittarius while grim Saturn turns retrograde and a religious personage comes to visit your bedside and begins a lecture on the evils of immoral behaviour. You become confused and start losing concentration as the great Sol Invicti and mischievous Mercury engage in lewd acts and immoral behaviour. As the messenger moves back into the sign of gloomy Scorpio, you start to wonder who you are. And, as the great Sol Invicti clashes with lunatic Uranus, you begin to think this wandering preacher fellow might in fact be god.
Gadzooks, tiny ovines! Has all the philosophy you've recently embraced finally unhinged you? Are you actually having a religious experience? Or is it just that you're as silly as you look? Click here next month and see! Ave atque vale, rambunctious!