Greetings, little airhead nincompoops! Last time we left you with a brace of British hearties, propping up the Maypole and preparing for a full and frank discussion about the required political correctness for a revival of the legend of Robin Hood, English outlaw and all round jolly good fellow! NB if you don't understand this, please read last month's forecast and, in future, try to keep up.
So what will you be doing this month? Let's consult the vile and bitter prognostications for maudlin May and find out. As Uranus, the idiot god and the great Sol Invicti form a yod (eek! How karmic) with jolly Jupiter, the Sons of Edward Longshanks who are your fulsome chums in your Nottingham home suggest you form a merry band and hie to the Greenwood where there will be archery and sword-fighting contests. Afterwards, you will discuss the 'Robin Hood' dispute in the traditional manner adopted by those lunatics who are devoted to mediaeval revival. Thus, there will be rousing encounters with the quarterstaff, followed by a serving of bruised knuckle and bloody pate, washed down with tankards of frothy ale. Those conscious at the end of the day will be deemed to have won the dispute. Eek! How gross! It's not you, is it!
As ghastly planets fart in nasty aspect, you give up the idea of writing about Robin Hood and instead decide you will write a show called 'Disco Nuns Go To Avalon', with flashing light crosses, glossy silver clothes and trance music. Much better than roistering with rude yokels! As a consequence of this radical inspiration (more your style), you burn your Maypole and the accompanying handkerchiefs (that didn't last long, did it). You send the Sons of Edward Longshanks to the Greenwood, promising to meet them later but then secretly fly your Nottingham home as a New Moon comes in odious Taurus. You send the doughty fellows a text containing your resignation but, as they have one mobile phone between them and it's so old it has a handle on the side, they are not certain to receive it. Let them pay the cost of their technophobia, little airhead twits! Eh! Besides, anything is better than facing them in the flesh.
You head South and West to Somerset and the mystic Isle of Avalon where you will write your extravaganza, uplifted by the sense that you have the courage of your lunatic convictions. However, as marauding Mars has slithered into snivelling Pisces, you find you have no money for the journey and thus must make it as a travelling player or gypsy of old. You soon find that if you sing for your supper folk will feed you to shut you up, unless of course they threaten you with firearms or violence, in which case you run away immediately. You use this means to travel the long and winding road and also begin to create some of the songs that will re-make your shattered fortune when 'Disco Nuns Go To Avalon' takes the public by storm. And then by all that's unholy, cosmic fury unleashes itself upon a naughty world. Mischievous Mercury clashes with cranky Chiron! Eek! Marauding Mars ruts with Uranus, the idiot god! And both assail jolly Jupiter! Aargh!
The great Sol Invicti wrestles grimly with dark Pluto, lord of the underworld. Egad! But what's this? A depressed eccentric with a speech impediment picks you up as you hitchhike on the highway to Avalon! The great Sol Invicti clatters into nitwit Gemini and heads for the Full Moon in addlepate Sagittarius and, by all the gods alive and dead, my little ninnies, it's a miracle that happens! Your ghastly songs (you hum them in the car) bring a smile to this wretched creature's lips! The first one, apparently, in many years. Tears of gratitude pour down the wretched creature's face. And, as dark Pluto, underworld god grapples with lugubrious Saturn, your driver turns out to be an eccentric billionaire (though tasteless and tone deaf) who now offers to finance your new endeavour in return for the simple smile you have brought to a face writ with tragedy for many years.
O my little ning-nongs! Is there no limit to the good you can do in the world? As the two of you are soon locked in steamy embrace in the back seat of the vehicle, we shall have to wait till next month to see if that question has an answer that will not break the reason of the breathless listener. The destiny of 'Disco Nuns Go To Avalon' is now written in the sensual contours of an intimate embrace as well as in the fortunate stars that guide you. But will there be ghosts in the disco convent of your dreams? We shall see. Hail and farewell, my tiny twerps!