Great giggling gargoyles and gargling gewgaws, my airhead imbeciles! It is time for a dose of the vile and bitters, the dread prognostications that pertain to the month of obnoxious October! And I'm just the dread prognosticator to deliver them! Asperitus, the awful! Attend to me, my little hirsute loonies! And I will pronounce for you a fate worse than death!
What is worse than death, I hear you ask? Why, I reply, it is the continuance of life in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods, your current place of residence. Last time we left you in rustic Sweden, chained in a cabin before a burning grill, surrounded by persons dressed in helmet and tabard. These bizarre developments were a direct result of your allegiance to the cult of Nhils Carborundum, Swedish philosopher, lunatic, inventor of the nail file and social dissident. It was this enigmatic figure that sent you on a quest to find the Holy Grill, an ancient Swedish spiritual relic. This quest it was that put you in such parlous climes.
So, tiny turnips! What will happen to you now? Why, we had best consult the vile and bitter prognostications for obnoxious October and so discover. The figures in ancient garb gather round and question you closely as mischievous Mercury grinds his passage (eek) into gloomy Scorpio. Questions such as 'who are you', 'what do you want' and 'what are the constituent elements of dynamite' baffle you where normally you would glibly answer. However, this may be because they're asked in Swedish. Incidentally, the question on dynamite pertains to the sole Swedish scientific achievement of any import, the invention of said combustible material. It is an attainment that contrasts oddly with the more humanitarian achievement of dynamite's creator, Alfred Nobel, inventor of the Nobel Prize. I leave those among the readership with functioning grey matter to contemplate the paradox.
By my sainted aunt, we'd best return to your tragic tale before I forget what I'm talking about and call for my medicine. As the Full Moon comes in arrogant Aries, illuminating your solar eleventh house with a sickly glow, your startling situation is resolved. It seems the arrivals are part of a Swedish mediaeval reenactment society that has come to the wild to celebrate St Bridget's day. St Bridget was a Swedish saint who, after a tragic and widowing marriage to Prince Alf the Ordinary and nasty encounters with King Magnus the Robot Fighter and his wife Blanche the Frivolous, found a convent. It is not known if it had earlier been lost by an extremely careless person. She thereafter gave birth to the Order of St Saviour, a somewhat painful affair but then Swedish women are known for their toughness. All this is deemed one of the more exciting events in local history so you can see there was little to do in Sweden before the invention of dynamite, the Nobel Prize, tennis and Abba.
However, all that is by the by as your manacles are removed and you're invited to sit with these lusty Swedish persons and enjoy a feast in honour of this fourteenth century saint. Much merry feasting occurs with such jokes and ribaldry as the limitations of language and saintly devotion allow. Suffice it to say that you're well fed but bored out of your mind as the post-prandial period commences. And thereby hangs a tale, my twittering nitwits! For the business of the day begins in earnest as these lusty fellows set about the action for which they've come.
This, of course, is the joust, a contest fit for those consumed with a passion for things mediaeval. The clash of arms rings through the dark Scandinavian forest and you look on astounded at a surfeit of mounting and dismounting, as much you ever saw whilst working in IT or the media. A New Moon comes in loathsome Libra and you're invited to try a mount and break a lance. This you do to great effect and soon have your new chums in stitches (other than those required by their recent wounds) as you amuse them with your stock of mediaeval phrases, including such quaint terms as 'prithee', 'zounds', 'marry, sir' and my personal favourite 'gadzooks'! So impressed are they that they invite you to take employment and write the script for the upcoming pageant of mediaeval marvels they are set to stage.
All of this takes place as ghastly planets fart and fornicate fantastically in gloomy Scorpio, ruler of the sex organs, the anus and the realm of hellish arachnids. You're instanter installed in a mountain lodge with all services on tap, including cleaning, culinary and concupiscence, provided by the somewhat mythic but nonetheless real and fleshly figure of the Swedish housekeeper. And there's a nice little serving of kronor to go with this new and rather odd occupation. From there, it's meetings and discussion ad infinitum and ad nauseam as the finer points of chivalry and knighthood and the requisite outlandish dress codes are discussed in preparation for the pageant. Various themes are debated as to suitability for public performance but the meetings take on a lengthy, soporific and impenetrable quality, much like watching THE VIRGIN SPRING without the naughty bits or THE SEVENTH SEAL without subtitles (or even with them, according to some). You're soon dozing until a cosmic collision rouses you from your slumbers.
Heavens forfend! A startling development develops! As vamping Venus and the great Sol Invicti give cranky Chiron the rogering of his life, your Swedish cronies decide the theme will be the revival of an ancient tale of Sweden, THE COMTE DU GRILL! Yikes and double yikes, my little loonies! How spooky! Is this not the mission you came to Stockholm to fulfill, sent on the orders of your guru, Nhils Carborundum, to find the Holy Grill? The mission you had forgot or put aside comes back to haunt you as mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse in evil Scorpio. The tiny world of the mountain lodge spins on its axis as the shadows of Halloween descend.
What ghosts will be summoned to the sacred barbecue of the enemies of Sweden? Click here next time and you shall discover, my hapless Grill Knights. Ave!