Salutations, airhead twits! How are your various water-bearing parts, surrounded as they are by multitudes of fatuous and asinine addlepates, the 'pick and mix' selection of loonies you laughingly refer to as your friends? As one could doubtless have better converse with a bag of liquorice allsorts, it's as well that you and yours are devoted to saving the world, is it not! That way, given the calibre of your efforts to date, the world will continue to lurch, unimpeded, toward inevitable doom. A mercy for all concerned when it gets there, say I! To have universal oblivion wrest from the sticky-fingered clutches of the idiot gods, their jam-covered, drink and urine sodden but much-favoured soft toy, the human race! What a cosmic joke that would be, in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods! A joke upon the gods themselves! Ah! Sigh! Now, to work! It's time for the vile and bitter prognostications, is it not!
Of course it is! And so shall you have them, tiny airhead things! It's fearful February so beware! Ghastly planets frolic in your sign as jolly Jupiter turns retrograde and you find you are bored and jaded, drinking coffee in Vienna after the 'mile high' orgy with friends in a hired jet to celebrate your birthday. You yearn to return to Scotland, your adopted home, and attend another performance of your highly successful musical HAIRRRR. And it's on that note the trouble begins. It's going to be gloom and doom in the highlands, my tiny wee twits! The nasty screech of cosmic gears offends the ear as marauding Mars crashes into lugubrious Capricorn and your solar twelfth house. Eek! What a place of wretched horror that is! Everyone cries when they go there. Or takes drugs! Or sleeps with someone else's spouse! Or gets confused and loses their way, then lies around being miserable and artistic without actually doing anything. It's also called the house of hidden enemies and not without good reason! And it's hidden enemies you're on course to meet...
Unbeknownst to you, idiot creatures, a doughty band of English patriots has formed a terrorist choir. They call themselves the Sons of Edward Longshanks and attend performances up and down the land of Britain. At the slightest criticism of Queen and country or the merest mention of the deeds of Scotland, Ireland or Wales (ye gods, speak not of Europe), these vile caitiffs then sing patriotic songs in a loud and disruptive manner. As you tootle back to Scotland at the New Moon in your sign, blithely humming the Age of Och-Quarius, you do so unaware you will soon face the greatest test of your useless and inconsequential life. Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds as you arrive to take up your seat and sing along to the odious songs you have written.
Quelle horreur, my little tikes! What do you find? The Sons of Edward Longshanks are picketting the theatre, letting no one in. And, not only that but also they sing in the disruptive manner I described before. The street outside theatre rings with stirring renditions of Land of Hope and Glory, The White Cliffs of Dover and Rum, Sodomy and the Lash (this last is a tribute to the British Navy). Native Scots cover their ears and run for the nearest pub. Foreign tourists scowl in frustration and demand their money back as idiot planets run amok in your house of finance.
Great gods alive and dead, this is serious, tiny nitwits! What will you do? And then the most dastardly of all possible dastardly things occurs! Cranky Chiron enters your sign. Eek! You shake and tremble in a peculiar manner. You perform saltatious acts while giving an impression of being a large bird. As the Full Moon comes in anal Virgo with nasty aspects to Uranus, the idiot god, you charge erratically to a nearby supermarket, purchase quantities of ground pepper and frozen peas then return to hurl them at the Sons of Edward Longshanks, with great effect. You accompany the missiles with curses learned during your days as a master occultist.
The rambunctious jingoists are laid low or scattered. The performance goes ahead, but you have made enemies this day, my bothersome twits! Click here next time and read the first exciting instalment of Border Wars or Pepper for the Patriots, the story of your humiliation and ultimate demise. Ta! Ta!