Gadzooks, my hairy little turnips! It must be 'All Cretins' Day' if you have turned up to have your futures scried by the master once again. And, speaking of your futures, I had best prognosticate upon them before I lose interest entirely and go back to bed. That's the story of my life really! Losing interest and going back to bed! Ah well! How sad! Never mind!
Now, as to the story of your life! Last time we left, you were in Halifax. Depressing enough in itself! But, you were also without cash or ID. Aargh! And, you had a band of wastrels, lunatics and woebegones that had become your followers in your guise as a 'psychic detective'. Eek! And, last but not least, you were being assailed by heartless officialdom on the matter of the purpose of your visit to Halifax. Ugh! Not an easy question to answer at the best of times, Halifax being what it is!
But you were on a mission, were you not, my ghastly little ponces! You had to come to wear the white rose of York and be the greatest psychic detective that ever lived. And your mission will not be thwarted while you can still draw breath, will it, my tiny ning-nongs! No, indeed! None shall say thee 'nay'.
'Egad, sirs!' you cry to the representatives of tedious officialdom, giving vent to a burst of inspiration to save the day as a New Moon comes in silly Sagittarius and marauding Mars places his private members' bill in the parliament of jolly Jupiter.
'It is All Cretins' Day and these are the cretins!' you cry, gesturing towards the accompanying crowd of wastrels with an insouciant sweep of the hand. 'Do you not know the great tradition of the gathering of the Yorkshire cretins upon All Cretins' Day?'
Such murmurings as follow would indicate the petty officials do not, though the picture presented by you and the eccentric horde is certainly convincing in the key respect. And it's then, my tiny little tikes, that all hell breaks loose in the Heavens! Cranky Chiron returns to your own idiot sign. You begin to twitch and leap in a saltatious manner. And your eccentric gyrations soon prove to be infectious, stimulating the throng about you. Soon, they are dancing too in an odd, jerking manner.
'Come,' you cry aloud, somewhat concerned for your parlous condition but determined to keep up the ruse, 'All must dance the dance of the cretins and know cretinous joys!' And, do you know what, little pumpkin heads? With marauding Mars now moving forwards and the mischievous messenger returned to addlepate Sagittarius, a tide of cretinous abandon sweeps through the people of Halifax, right there and then. Persons push and shove in a merry mood of cretinous abandon. Cretinous songs are sung. Cretinous ale is drunk. Cretinous jokes are told (many such are known in Halifax). A public holiday is declared to revive the elder tradition of All Cretins' Day.
As vamping Venus clambers about the nether regions of cranky Chiron in your idiot sign and the Full Moon blazes in nitwit Gemini, you find yourself amid anarchic roistering and writhing of the kind you tend to favour. You leap and twist, making psychic predictions so misdirected that all think them uproariously funny and name you St Cretin, psychic detective, thus removing your concerns about a lack of ID.
But, by my sainted aunt, what's this? It seems that your old trouble isn't done with yet, as vamping Venus moves into perverse reverse. You begin to feel you're turning into a giant bird once more, just as you did in the Somerset rain when cranky Chiron last trod this path. Egad! And there's nothing you can do about it except squawk and flap your wings. Again, the folk think this is so uproarious they invite you to dwell in Halifax, giving you a home, free of charge, with a comfortable bed, even more comfortable walls and wrought iron decorating the windows. As the great Sol Invicti enters lugubrious Capricorn, visiting yet another solstice on an over-burdened world, they even read you something from a very official-looking paper that names you 'St Cretin' and welcomes you for an indefinite stay in this house in Halifax. Of course, ghastly planets are farting noxiously in the cosmic winds to account for these doings, but I'm too tired to recount what they are. Let me only say the words 'grand cross' and grown men shall weep while women beat their breasts in sorrow. And so, my tiny turnips, you perch on your bed after your first day as St Cretin, psychic detective, feeling more than somewhat satisfied with your endeavours.
But what's this? Do you have a creeping feeling all is not right? Perhaps it's the lock on the door or the odd long-sleeved jacket with the ties at the back that has given rise to this unease. And now what's happening? Great gods alive and dead, it's the New Moon in Capricorn and your solar twelfth house. Eek! Now there's a realm of misery, self-undoing, deception and despair if ever there was one. What a ghastly place to be! But there you are! Incarcerated in what I now reveal is the Bedlam of Halifax.
Egad! By my little brown bottle, twittering loonies! Do you know what this means? You're in an insane asylum after being certified by the cretins of Halifax. What a revolting development! I wonder what will happen to you now? Oh well! I expect you'll have to click here next time and see. In the meantime, ave atque vale, my tiny airheads!