Great twittering tonsils and terrifying trolls! It's you, my gallant little loonies! Thus, it must be time for me, Asperitus, to dole out the nasty medicine! I am the doctor of doom! Bard of baffle! Prophet of piffle! And these are the prognostications, of the familiar vile and bitter kind, that pertain to manic March, the month I presume this is, there being three knots in my handkerchief.
Last time, you experienced a setback in your efforts to become one of England's finest, a London Bobby. In fact, you were conned, taken advantage of and humiliated in a public street. And yet all this did not one whit deter you from your desire to become Horse of the Yard! In fact, as mischievous Mercury slips a quick one into dark Pluto, underworld god, then moves into perverse reverse, we find you at home. You stand before a mirror, practicing equine expressions that indicate variously thoughtfulness, analysis, powers of perception or observation and that 'steely glint' so necessary when unmasking the perpetrator of a criminal act. You also neigh and are learning to count by stamping. It hardly seems necessary to point out at this juncture that you are, in all likelihood, having a crisis and losing your mind. In fact, as you look into the silver-backed glass whilst jolly Jupiter gropes narcotic Neptune, you are almost convinced that you are in fact a horse, cleverly concealed in human form. Perhaps this is a magic mirror, tiny turnips! What do you think? Hmm! Whatever it's nature, this bizarre business is doubtless is due to the current plague of energy in tear-stained Pisces. Certainly it is more fish-faced foolishness than is good for any or all of you lunatics stranded in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. Vamping Venus enters Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, and you greet persons in the street or on occasions of daily intercourse by whinnying, snorting (your personal favourite) and also tossing your mane with contemptuous vigour. However, as marauding Mars sideswipes Uranus, idiot god, in a manner careless yet concupiscent, such persons dissolve into laughter or run away screaming.
Thus, as a Full Moon comes in aggravating Virgo, bringing a Lunar Eclipse, you decide to cease such antics as their emotional timbre is not in keeping with the dignity required by your status as an internationally renowned detective. You canter home in a quandary. What to do, you think, as you stand before the magic mirror. And then it strikes you, just as mischievous Mercury again strikes dark Pluto, the underworld god. Horse of the Yard must be a secret identity!
Egad! That's it, isn't it, tiny twerps! You shall be a superhero with a secret identity, just like Superman and Clark Kent or Batman and Bruce Wayne or Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. By day you shall be Mr or Mrs or Ms E. Quine but by night you shall be Horse of the Yard. Thus, with the great Sol Invicti clattering in addlepate Aries, bringing a New Moon and Solar Eclipse in that same appalling sign, you decide to give up earthly pleasure and recreation in order to track down criminals across the world and bring them to justice. You and your faithful hound, Oedipus Rex the wonder dog (he's been slobbering in the corner of your room all this time) are now on the job. And, as vamping Venus exposes her nether regions to sate the lusts of narcotic Neptune, your first target will be the boys and girls of the media. You will beard them in the very sinkhole of corruption in which they daily disport themselves.
Click here next month for another exciting episode of 'Why the long face, Inspector Horse?' For the nonce, farewell, O cretinous creatures!