It's you, my hair gel vanities! Egad! How tiresome to surrender my sleep just to talk with vacuous twerps such as yourselves. Ah well! All life is irritation, is it not! A point well proved in this instance!
Now, as to the matter of your wretched existence, I believe we left you last time in the midst of a 'strip tennis' frenzy. You were the 'beast of forty love' and putting it about with your racket and balls in no uncertain terms. Lovers and lunatics were falling left, right and centre before the power of your backhand, your top spin lob and your tempting little drop volley. As ghastly planets were cavorting in your solar eighth house, you were soon drunk on the power and glamour of it all. So what will happen to the beast in the month of fateful February? Why, let us drink deep from the dread cup of vile and bitter prognostications and so discover.
But what's this? Gadzooks! I'm late with the forecast? 'What is to be done?' as Vladimir once said. But was it Vladimir Lenin or was it Vladimir, of 'Vladimir and Estragon' fame? Well, I can't remember! Nor have I the time for literary niceties! Perhaps you could try reading something other than WHAT'S NEW IN STYLING MOUSSE and find out for yourselves, my tiny vacuous types! In the meantime, we must catch up on what has been missed due to the laggard nature of myself and my life in general.
There was a Full Moon in your lackwit sign and thus you will have indulged in the pleasures of the flesh, exploited those close to you to sate your animal desires and boasted about your hair, your exploits and how generally wonderful you think you are. Meantime, as mischievous Mercury slithered into wretched Pisces, persons would have talked behind your back in a nasty manner (calling you 'fatty' and 'vanity of vanities' and such) but they would have continued being nice to your face. As vamping Venus then engaged obscenely with Uranus, the idiot god, you would have gone on a spending spree and put yourself dangerously in debt despite the steaming piles of dosh you're earning as the idol of the Strip Tennis craze. As narcotic Neptune conjoined in a gross and bestial manner with the great Sol Invicti, the adoring eye of the obsessed and addicted lover will have been trained on you while the eyes of those seduced and then abandoned by the 'beast of forty love' will have filled with tears, enough to swell all the rivers of the land of heartache and sorrow, no doubt!
But, by my sainted aunt, what's this? As we arrive in the present moment, all hell breaks loose in the Heavens. Ghastly shenanigans erupt as jolly Jupiter despoils vamping Venus then rogers the living daylights out of the Loony Nodes. The crapulent lord of fortune is on the rampage! Thus you decide to buy yourself a mighty mansion on a tropical isle and so become the monarch of Strip Tennis, living the life of decadent and sybaritic luxury you feel is the fortune you deserve for just being 'you'. But then it all starts to go wrong, my hair gel vanities! All your tiny accountants do all your tiny little accounts (and your great big ones) only for you to discover you haven't got the money to buy what you want.
Odds bodkins, little creeps! What will you do? A desperate thing, no doubt! And so it is! Just as mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse, you contact a highly recommended and discreet financial operation registered under the name of THE KNEECAP BROTHERS. Their slogan is 'cheap loans at shatteringly low interest rates'. In no time at all, you've signed up without even reading the fine print. After all, they praised your hair, your tennis and the fine figure of a cat you cut on court! Dishonesty is clearly beyond them. Besides, you use a major shareholding in the Strip Tennis franchise to underwrite the loan.
As the New Moon comes in idiot Aquarius, locked in a grim embrace with wrinkled Saturn, you form a binding financial association with Lars and Sven Kneecap. They are your friends for life or, at least, for the life of the loan, though often these two prove to be of similar duration. And then it is that further ghastly planets fart in further nasty aspects as vamping Venus clashes with dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, and the great Sol Invicti slithers into tear-stained Pisces. Ex-lovers threaten the worst if you don't take them with you to Lion Island (imaginatively named) while adoring fans shed tears and scream as the star of Strip Tennis departs for Feline's Fancy, your new island manse. Tragic are the casualties of love in your brilliant and meteoric rise to stardom! Nonetheless and not be denied, you cruelly depart, choosing a mere dozen brainlessly agreeable types to begin your harem.
But what's this? Nay, tiny pussy types! I like it not! And nor will you. Marauding Mars barrels belligerently into idiot Aquarius as mischievous Mercury batters his way into that same sign by the back door and a bevy of armed guards and Swedish staff arrive, supposedly sent by Lars and Sven to protect you there in Feline's Fancy. But, in between bouts of obsessive indulgence in the fleshpots of fandom, you nervously wonder if they've come to keep others out or to keep you in.
Shriek and double shriek! Surely your friends, Lars and Sven would not do you harm just to gain control of the Strip Tennis empire? How could this be, after saying they like you and your hair! But debt and greed are loathsome twin beasts, haunting this world, causing all manner of loathsome men, women and persons to do all manner of loathsome things to one another for gain. Eek! If you're worried, click here next month and see what happens next. As for myself, I think I shall lie down, as I'm on the verge of expiring from creeping ennui and screaming boredom. Ave, my pussy types!