Hooray to you, creeping creatures of the unsavoury, insanitary, sand ridden seaside! Great gods alive and dead but it's torture, sheer torture to yet again address you on the matter of the dark, damnable destiny that creeps in the wake of your unnatural sideways nipper nicking on the beach of agony, the wasteland where the waves of life's tragedies crash upon the shores of endless sorrow and excruciating ennui.
Ye gods and little fishes (an aquatic reference), why are you pursued by misery, my darling crabby types? What is the dreadful fate that makes the crabby life one of dark moods and bloody deeds. Perhaps an elder, supernal force once called down a furious vengeance on your kind for a grievous infraction of the laws of nature, committed by an ancient, long forgotten forbear of yours, a ghastly great, great, great grand 'whatever' born in some antediluvian epoch. For generational creatures indeed are ye, passing on the family silver and the bad seed with the remorseless reflex of your consanguinity. Perhaps an odious elder god (so many to choose from) once took umbrage at the gastric repercussions of a seafood meal that went awry in a bowel-clenching manner.
One might easily imagine it was hideously orchestral in the heavenly outhouse on such a night as that and thus the deity, in payment for his pangs, cursed the crustacean with neurosis, misery and anxiety, stigmata that will bleed with woe till the last generation of you lily-livered nitwits of the nipper is dead and gone. Well, that's enough pleasantries for the nonce. Let us get on with the vile and bitter prognostications for fateful February instead!
We left you last time in a dark and dangerous mood. We find little has altered as we pick up the tale. There are morbid mutterings, mad relatives and darkened rooms, the more so with the Full Moon in lackwit Leo as angst over finance grows into a beast of nightmare proportion. As various nasty planets disport themselves obscenely in wretched Pisces, you communicate with foreigners (eek), fatuous media farts (aargh) and an over qualified lawyer (ugh) whose great contribution to proceedings is the bill sent by email five minutes later. As the great Sol Invicti grapples with narcotic Neptune, all your efforts to improve your finances has only made things worse. In addition, the trick cyclist you hire to certify the certainly certifiable members of your family charges more exorbitantly than the lawyer.
And, by my sainted aunt, what's this? Egad! It's a heavenly miasma of flatulent planets that makes for a very earthly miasma in and about Castle Crab. Phone lines go out! Appliances break down. A sibling takes your car (your favourite sea green Peugeot) without permission, collides with a busload of children returning from an aquatic display and punches the police officer that attempts to arrest him. And, as if that isn't entirely sufficient under the legal definition of catastrophe, there is a fistfight at your door as Christian extremists seeking your conversion clash with a group of travelling clairvoyants that offer to tell your future by doing a psychic reading of your doormat. Of course, retrograde Mercury in the wretched sign of the Fishes is to blame for much of this, though Jolly Jupiter as usual puts his oar in by rampaging through vamping Venus and the Loony Nodes in a sexually aberrant manner.
By the New Moon in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god, you decide you will commit yourself to an asylum and leave your family at home to sort out the mess. You give up work and travel overseas to a sanctuary for the bewildered, just as the great Sol Invicti slithers into Pisces. Vamping Venus blazes lustfully in addlepate Aries and, on your arrival, a fiery figure of authority orders you about as if you're a mental case which, of course, you are. Marauding Mars barrels belligerently to idiot Aquarius and mischievous Mercury batters his way in to that same sign by the back door and you dive into the slough of despond, harbouring thoughts of murder, occult powers and overdue taxes.
Great copulating camels! Do you have the requisite grey matter in the brain box to navigate these morbid corridors and return to the light? Or will the dark shadow of crabby doom fall upon your recumbent form, probably just as you've got into the bath to play with Big Willie Steamboat or Rubber Ducky.
By all the gods alive and dead, is there no mercy in the universe at all but the hand of fate must strike down a crazed Crab and a bath toy! Apparently not! Oh well! How sad! Never mind! See you in the loony bin, my tiny nitwits of the nipper! Ave!