I salute you, my tiny bearers of the sacred buttocks! Last time, we left you with nothing but sunglasses, a pink scarf and humble employ as a water taxi-driver to stand between you and a naughty world, one where the howl of grim pursuit threatened to run you to earth at any moment. Yet again you cowered in the clutch of a personal tragedy, both self-inflicted and entirely exaggerated for the sake of effect. What then, my frightful little persons, do the influences hold for this month? I am reliably informed by the staff in Heaven that it is jaundiced July. So, let us consult the prognostications of a vile and bitter nature and discover.
We begin with a ghastly New Moon in neurotic Cancer, clashing with marauding Mars and thus creating mayhem in your solar tenth and seventh houses. As jolly Jupiter and Uranus, idiot god, also run riot in this dose of cosmic flatulence, we can be assured the outcome will be nasty for all concerned. And yet, at first, it does not seem to be for you discover the sons of the cannoneers have disbanded their army of protest and ended their war upon the merkin. Hoorah! But this is only because the merkin itself has fallen by the wayside of the world of 'now' and into the gutters of 'very five minutes ago' and is thus consigned to the 'dead letter' office under the grim stamp of 'thing of the past'.
Great Caesar's ghost! How can this be? The merkin has fallen from the heights, leaving revealed that which, in polite society, ought to be concealed. And you, my anxious twerps have fallen with it, gawky fashion, into the lower depths! Or at least sailing slightly above them as a water taxi-driver! Oh well! How sad! Never mind! All this news you have heard as scuttlebutt, as you traffic folk back and forth on a sea of consummate boredom. The idle rich you ferry speak of nothing but what is in and what is not. As marauding Mars conjoins in unseemly fashion with the Lunar North Node, you deal with nasty folk who harass you with arrogant, insensitive sexual allure. As the great Sol Invicti clashes with the brash god of war, you deal with bossy persons who tell you what to do, make snide remarks about your clothes and leave miserly tips for your aquatic services.
In all, humdrum and malaise are what you have left as you contemplate, in your pitiful disguise, life without fame, the merkin or sex therapy of a fruity kind. Oh, of course, you still buy the odd peach or banana to dally with in the comfort the hovel to which you have been forced to move. But it's not the same, is it, nitwit types! Mischievous Mercury and vamping Venus clash with narcotic Neptune and you wonder idly where your life is going, now that you live in a drug besotted haze amid the aimless souls who also pilot water craft on the ocean of unmeaning. Where are the great dreams, the challenges and the daring adventures? Your heart cries out for expansion but there's nothing but contraction on the horizon.
But what's this? By all the gods alive and dead, it's a gruesome grinding racket, issuing from the Heavens, as grim Saturn trumpets his passage (ugh) into lackwit Leo. And there, the black dog of despair gets you in a death grip. As the Full Moon casts her chill necrotic light in your solar fourth house, you leave your hovel to find that a party of old friends (the great Sol Invicti in Leo, conjoining with lugubrious Saturn) is booked for a day cruise on the craft that you pilot. At first, you sigh with relief as no one sees through your clever disguise. In fact, they don't look at you at all, you being a cap-doffing menial! But, as mischievous Mercury moves into reverse motion, they begin to talk loud and long about your foolish antics!
Eek! They're discussing you in your absence and yet you're present. What a cruel twist of fate! It's seems, tiny bottom types, you are the talk of the town. As vamping Venus enters Virgo and your solar twelfth house, you sit in silence at the wheel of your craft while quondam friends shriek about your foolish campaign to revive the merkin. They gossip viciously about your questionable connection with Ingmar Ice Pick, enigmatic Swedish film director. They text each other and laugh salaciously about your sex therapy with fruit and the failure of your healing centre and book. And, if all this is not yet too much to bear, they criticize your dress sense and the shape of your buttocks!
By my little brown bottle, is justice gone from the world? Will the gods not raise a storm to punish the mockers, the scoffers and the brainless twerps unfit to wear the badge of life? In fact, that's just what they do, my fawning little ning-nongs! Vamping Venus clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, activating ghastly business in your solar twelfth house! Marauding Mars enters cloddish Taurus and your solar eighth house, a nasty den of forces beyond one's control, and then sideswipes grim Saturn. Winds howl! Waves rise! And the mother of all storms arrives to sweep the boat out to sea. Shiver me timbers, shipmates! Is narcotic Neptune set to claim you and this boatload of quislings as you take an unplanned excursion to Davy Jones' locker at full fathom five?
Hold your breath till next time and I'll be back with more nautical nonsense than you could pour into a pirate's privy. Ave, aquatic addlepates!