Great steaming vats of styling mousse! It's you, hairdressing types! Conversely, for you who read this egregious drivel, it is I! Asperitus! The baffling bard! Piffling prophet! Awful auspex! It's time for your monthly dose of vile and bitters! Open wide your mewling gobs! Swallow the unspeakable fluids from mother's silver spoon! Here they come!
Last time you were set to make magic that would weaken and perhaps, in the end, destroy the crime lord that was once both your enemy and ally, the mysterious Mr Griffin. In case you've forgotten, you have recently become a powerful occultist in the manner of Madam Blackcatski or Merlyn the Optician by defeating a bunch of yokels in a country town wherein you have taken up residence. You live in a house by a bridge that you call the palace of the occult as distinct from the description given by passing travellers who call it a dump. I suppose it's all a matter of perspective with these things.
Anyway, you've made the acquaintance of the local bird life and are set to send a flock of such to assail said Mr Griffin in his manse. As I've brought us up to date without losing consciousness, I suppose I shall have to continue. Mischievous Mercury opens proceedings by slipping a quick one into dark Pluto, underworld god, then moving into perverse reverse. And, by my sainted aunt, that brings a problem or two, I can tell you, my monuments to human dimness. You see! It's all taking place in your solar eighth house, a proper place for the occult under normal circumstances. However, you keep getting your spells mixed up so it all goes tragically wrong. You manage to conjure a birthday cake that sings 'YOU ARE SO BEAUTIFUL', a self-lubricating sexual device for chickens and several interesting varieties of feathered undergarments but cannot muster the birds to form the required avian flotilla.
However, what does transpire is an obsessive interest in you by your avian friends. In fact, by a Full Moon in aggravating Virgo, bringing a Lunar Eclipse to your solar second house, you're in a cloud of feathered friends. They eat you out of house and home, bankrupting you with the purchase of birdseed and cleaning products and devices to take care of the mess. And yet you cannot cast a spell for them to do anything other than fly lovingly about your house, singing and excreting. Eek! How nauseating! And yet how just and how karmically appropriate! But what's this? Great gods alive and dead! It's the farting of ghastly planets as they cavort in nasty aspect! Suddenly, my tiny twerps, the birds seem to gather about you and lift you into the air. I must say at this juncture that they seem to do so because that's in fact what happens, no matter how unbelievable normal folk (unlike yourselves) might find such a proposition.
As the great Sol Invicti clatters into addlepate Aries, visiting yet another Equinox upon an over-burdened world, you're spirited into the stratosphere by the amicable avians. You're flying, tiny hair gel types! Taken aloft upon a cloud of birds! It's a dream come true! But, ye gods and little fishes! What about your hair! How will it react to the rigours of the stratospheric winds? Fear not, puling pussies! The very birds themselves have conjured an entirely new styling mousse and gel from their excreta, just as you thought you would do last month. It's their gift to you! And so, without fear for your shining locks, you're aloft with the gods! A proper place in the scheme of things at last!
But, great Caesar's ghost! A thought occurs to you (your first one in some time) and there comes a sinking feeling with the New Moon in addlepate Aries that brings a Solar Eclipse to your house of the higher mind and travel! How will you get down? Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other such quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm! Are you to cross to Heaven on a bridge of birds? Or are you to drop senseless like a stone, as did Icarus in the times of yore? Click here next time for another startling episode of this burgeoning Greek tragedy of epic proportion. Ave, tiny pussy folk!