Salutations, addlepate twits! We left you last time in a parlous state! You lay unconscious at the foot of the stairs, dreaming of enemies and strife, as those set on your destruction bounced at the gates of your castle of retreat, from which position they hurled objects in your general direction. Eclipses and reverse motion planets and other ghastly cosmic farting fashioned this extravagance!
So what do the vile and bitter prognostications hold for awful April? Will it be rapid improvement or irreversible decline? Let us read on rather than live in hope of the latter. Vamping Venus slithers into tear-stained Pisces and a nameless, twittering, weepy individual (typical of the fishy sign) steps from the shadowy corridors of Castle Ram. In the time-honoured fashion of lunatics intent on doing good in the world, the creature mops your fevered brow to restore you. The better deed might well have been to tie a cushion across your breathing apparatus, but that's another story, I suppose. One well ensconced in a drawer marked 'too good to be true'.
And what's this? Egad! It's sober Saturn, grinding his nasty bones and wrinkled skin into forward motion, causing the already dreary denizens of this benighted earth to make grim countenances, creak at the knees and behave in a depressed manner. You rise from your somnolent posture, coming to your knees (Saturn rules same). As you do so, a hail of stones, bottles and glass rains on the roof, thrown by the frantic hands of the enemy at the gate. You will, of course, recall that these are disgruntled friends and readers you've upset with your 'tell all' book, THE RAMPAGING TRUTH. Though you're in a trance, the martial spirit seizes you. You don an idiotic uniform decorated with braid and tassels. From the unconscious state, you proclaim yourself 'General Slaughter', hammer of god and defender of the ram. Actually this last should be 'defender of the realm', but self-obsession colours everything you do.
A Full Moon comes in loathsome Libra as mischievous Mercury cavorts with dark Pluto, god of the underworld. Thus, you scream, froth and rage to marshal your imaginary friends (is there another kind for you) to form a troop and combat the foe. Marauding Mars clatters into neurotic Cancer on Good Friday and you sing songs of home and fatherland as you mount the battlements, ready to die in defence of your domicile. You prime the cannon for a fusillade.
Egad! Mischievous Mercury rages into your addlepate sign and you hurl abuse at the foe, scoring their wretched ranks with scathing scorn. Eek! Even the erstwhile do-gooder flees the sight and sound of your rampant fury. Mercury and Mars grope each other's private parts and combine to nastily assail the Loony Nodes!
'No quarter!' you shriek. Smoke pours from your ears. Howling supernal rage envelops you! Gadzooks! No known deodorant will protect mere mortals from the odour that issues from your armpits. And, by my sainted aunt, strong men and mighty women blanch as a freak gust of wind carries said odour to the assembled foe.
And what's this? Great Caesar's ghost! It's the great Sol Invicti, grinding into leaden Taurus, making unspeakable congress with grim Saturn. The assemblage instanter reminds itself that it has other things to do, like finding an upwind corridor as far from Castle Ram as is it is geographically possible to be. Great trundling tea-trolleys, you've won the day, tiny ovines. But it's a Pyrrhic victory, little loonies. You sink to your knees, sadly depressed and with a bad back to boot (Saturn in Leo)! The New Moon comes in the cloddish sign of the Bull and you come out of your trance, depressed, alone and garbed in a silly uniform with tawdry tassels and boorish braid. The money from the book has now been consumed by the monstrous home you purchased to escape the nest of hornets that the book stirred up. The only friend you have in all the world is the snivelling Piscean thing that tended you when you were unconscious on the floor, a wretched twerp you cannot even bear to look at.
Thus, as the great Sol Invicti clashes with cranky Chiron, you see your mad dreams have cost you dearly. You're in a snare of your own devising without strength to untie the knots. Will you do the decent thing, wretched ovines? Or will you persist in living when all would sing your elegy. Return in malodorous May and we shall see! Ave atque vale, rambunctious!