Ho to you, my milksop ning-nongs! Last time, you were about to write a saga on the search for the Holy Grill, a relic of ancient Sweden, whilst in the employ of a group of lunatics devoted to St Bridget. Bridget was a devout woman and saintly too. She lived in an era when heavy snows and appalling personal hygiene meant that unsaintly acts were rarely possible and never desirable.
The followers of this Saint were also devoted to mediaeval reenactment and the saga of the Holy Grill was to be their next grand occasion. You had first heard of the Holy Grill in your time as a disciple of the Swedish philosopher, guru and maniac, Nhils Carborundum, inventor of the nail file and author of the definitive tract on abrasion. However, things have moved so far down the track from that place that I'm sure neither you nor I can even remember how it started.
But life isn't about dwelling on the past, is it! Not when you're an agile little airhead! Let us look to the future. In pursuit of which we will now consult the vile and bitter prognostications for nasty November! Read on in fear trembling, tiny ning-nongs!
Mischievous Mercury is first cab off the rank. Moving in perverse reverse, he makes the nether regions of aging Saturn groan with unwarranted and obscene attentions. Thus you find it difficult to begin writing the saga. You clash with co-workers, suffer equipment failure and experience minor health concerns. These latter include erratic muscular spasms in parts of the body that should remain unnamed without the presence of a medical practitioner. A Full Moon comes in cloddish Taurus and you're forced to take bed rest! You plead exhaustion and creative blockage but the truth is that you find the spasms enjoyable, more so than hobnobbing with these Swedish lunatics with whom you're seemingly incarcerated.
Thus you lie abed, tended by a housekeeper who also finds the spasms enjoyable. Narcotic Neptune tickles the fancy of vamping Venus, mischievous Mercury and the great Sol Invicti by turns and you wonder about your life. Why are you in Sweden? How did you get involved with Nhils Carborundum? What on earth are the principles of abrasion anyway? And, if you find the Holy Grill, will you be able to have a decent barbecue on it?
However, these ruminations are interrupted by a severe attack of muscular spasms, forcing your housekeeper into an act of dereliction of domestic duty and clearing your mind of any further fruitless reflections on the condition of your life. Jolly Jupiter then gives vamping Venus a dose of old-fashioned rumpy-pumpy and you're called to a meeting of the bigwigs involved in the staging of this pageant of the Holy Grill. It seems they wish to know how you're getting on with the script. As marauding Mars then rams his nasty thing into the private parts of narcotic Neptune, you lie about the current level of completion, praise all those present for positive contributions and support.
And, as vamping Venus clatters into silly Sagittarius, you suggest a romantic liaison with a willing admirer, explaining earnestly the advantages offered under the auspices of your current spasmodic condition. However, the liaison proves to be short-lived (your preferred option anyway) as mischievous Mercury then starts to move forward. The spasms cease but you, my tiny two-faced ninnies, begin work upon the script in earnest. Gadzooks! And what a beginning it is.
Come the New Moon in morbid Scorpio, you're immersed in the myths and history of ancient Sweden, St Bridget and the Holy Grill! And, by my sainted aunt, you're fascinated and almost obsessed! A scholar suddenly where before it appeared there was little in the way of deep thought. The great Sol Invicti and jolly Jupiter clatter drunkenly into addlepate Sagittarius and you join a class to study the hidden lore of mediaeval Sweden. And what luck! Your teacher will be none other than a direct descendant of King Magnus the Robot Fighter!
As vamping Venus gropes Uranus, the idiot god, you eschew contact with the outside world. By day, you study, read and cogitate (eek). By night, you write the masterwork that is your commission and sacred trust. You begin sexual relations with your teacher, the descendant of King Magnus, making the sacrifice so you can develop a true feeling for the past. This eccentric creature lives in the manner of a mediaeval person, riding daily to the university in a horse and cart, bathing in a tub of freezing water, hunting game for food and thrashing recalcitrant servants. On being invited to dwell in a cottage on the estate and finish your epic on the Holy Grill, you accept instanter.
Odds bodkins! How devoted! But will you freeze your extremities in this bold endeavour or will you finally find your Grill to keep you warm? Click here next time and read a further chapter of this fatuous twaddle, one entitled THE KNIGHT OF THE LONG GRILL. For the nonce, ave!
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