Avast, ye two-faced swabs! Last time, you were a tennis bum, wandering the streets trying to get your racket re-strung after a gruesome encounter with a cult led by the mysterious Swedish philosopher and inventor of the nail file, Nhils Carborundum. You had joined his merry band but, disillusioned, soon deserted it to return to your old life among the brainless media set. However, the old life proved shallow and unrewarding (no surprises there), apart from a nifty 'ticketing' scam. And the cult members soon sought you out, picketing your home, demanding money, haunting your dreams and chanting hypnotically a litany of Swedish tennis players and achievements to urge you to develop a top spin lob and return to the clutch of its enigmatic leader.
So, what will happen as awful August opens its hideous maw to swallow you whole? Why, we had best consult the vile and bitter prognostications and so discover. As grim Saturn conducts himself improperly with Uranus, the idiot god, we find you sitting on a street corner, idly swinging your limp-stringed racket and wondering who you can talk to. But, by my sainted aunt, as a raft of ghastly planets farts in nasty aspect, the great man himself appears at your side, offering the hand of friendship to lead you out of travail. Eek!
You're dazed and confused by this development, my little twerps, puzzling as you have been over the meaning and purpose of your empty, wretched and useless existence! Nothing whatsoever on either count, for those in the know! Ah well! As marauding Mars thrusts himself at cranky Chiron, you accept the grip of steel and the caress of well-filed nails. The great Sol Invicti conjoins with grim Saturn and the great one asks you first to put down the tennis racket as it's projecting at an improper angle. You comply. The great one then makes a sweeping gesture towards the far horizon, as the Full Moon blazes in idiot Aquarius. You see a vision of burning steel hovering above an altar stone amid snow-capped peaks. It seems to beckon like some distant home that begs for your return.
What can this mean, my tiny turnips? The great one, accustomed to the confusion of lesser beings (yourself, on this occasion), begins a lengthy explanation, as mischievous Mercury gallivants into lackwit Leo. It seems the true purpose of the cult he founded is neither in nail files nor in rasps. Rather, it is in the lyrics of the songs of Abba wherein there may be found (by those who have ears to hear) a series of obscure references, variously called the Andersson Articles, the Ulvaeus Tracts or, more simply, the Abba Code.
As oafish planets in Leo flagrantly flaunt themselves before idiot planets in Aquarius, the great one explains the mysteries thereof. It holds the key to the quest for the Holy Grill, an ancient Swedish artifact, thought to be a barbecue whereon the livers of the enemies of Sweden were cooked and eaten after their defeat in battle. The vision you saw revealed its exact location. Thus, you are the chosen one, the Grill Knight, for the fickle finger of fate is pointing in your general direction! Odds bodkins! Now there's a turn up for the books!
The great Sol Invicti clatters into nitwit Virgo, bringing a New Moon in that vexatious sign and the great one asks you to rejoin the cult so you can move to Stockholm. Once there, you can lead a quest for the Holy Grill and so restore Sweden to her ancient prominence as the Holy Land of Europe, first among the makers of the mystic tradition. Glowing with evangelical light, you agree. Marauding Mars roars ruthlessly towards a gruesome encounter with the Loony South Node (aargh) and a contretemps with dark Pluto (ugh)! Mischievous Mercury slopes into anal Virgo (eek)! Thus, you hurl a few meagre possessions in a suitcase and board the great one's private jet to fulfill your Swedish quest and find the Holy Grill.
But will the burning steel of this mystic implement be too hot to hold? Click here next time to read the exciting tale of COMTE DU GRILL, an adventure in Swedish steel! For the nonce, ave, little ning-nongs!