Hola to you, my thrice blessed addlepates! Last time we left, you were whooping it up in Feline's Fancy, your island paradise and the capital of the 'Strip Tennis' empire you had created. You were there by courtesy (snigger) of money borrowed from Lars and Sven Kneecap, a pair of kindly moneylenders that had taken to serving society by employing a multitude of over-sized men with huge fists, cauliflower ears and ill-fitting suits that, one and all, bulged strangely near the left armpit, indicating perhaps some kind of deformity that prevented normal employ. You were a celebrity of the buff ballgame, christened the 'Beast of Forty Love' by an adoring fandom.
What a racket, eh, my tiny turnips! And though the sun was risen on your empire of fame and fortune and you had sybarites and sycophants in tow in a 'colour by numbers' retinue, yet did kindly Lars and Sven begin to cast long shadows across the glitter of your daylight hours, ushering in a darkening evening of who knows what.
Well, I suspect that if we consult the vile and bitter prognostications for manic March, we shall discover. As I'm late with the forecast, I shall give you a rundown on the events so far. Grim Saturn groped narcotic Neptune and you controlled all persons in your vicinity (apart from the Nordically inscrutable Lars and Sven), preying on their weaknesses, exploiting their appetites and deceiving them as to your interest in them. As the Full Moon in irritating Virgo then brought a Lunar Eclipse to your house of money, you found that every time you asked for further dosh from Lars and Sven, they asked you to sign things and talked about 'lines of credit'. Thus you went deeper and deeper in debt without seeing any cash. As the great Sol Invicti rounded on idiot Uranus, bearing down with lustful intent, so did you bear down on opponents, naked and defeated, both on and off the court. The Beast of Forty Love was vile that night.
But what's this? Great dancing dung beetles! It's a gaggle of ghastly planets too tedious to name all farting in nasty aspects too hideous to describe. Somehow, despite the triumph of seeming to have everything you want, you actually have nothing. Pleasures pall, parties degenerate into noxious tedium and every step you take is circumscribed by a large man with cauliflower ears and an odd bulge beneath the left arm of an ill-fitting suit. Marauding Mars cranks his shaft into cranky Chiron and everywhere you look there is a wall of Swedish steel in human form. Vamping Venus gropes her way into cloth-eared Taurus and you begin to feel like a figurehead without power or influence, despite your apparent wealth. Lars and Sven trot you out for press conferences, the media scrum and dealings with foreign dignitaries that have an eye for Strip Tennis while on foreign junkets. As mischievous Mercury returns to tear-stained Pisces, just as the New Moon brings a Solar Eclipse in that same wretched sign, you discover by means of discreet enquiry from a friend in finance that you're the owner of Strip Tennis and Feline's Fancy in name only. The Kneecap Brothers own it all!
Yikes, my tiny pussies! You've been fiddled and diddled out of a fortune. Double yikes! You've been hooked and rooked by crooks. They've used you and played you for a fool. Your empire is eclipsed before it has begun. You cast aside your latest painted plaything and begin to plan revenge. They think they've won, this Lars and Sven! But you'll show them! You're not as silly as you look, my darling little twits! But then, nobody could be! Bear that in mind!
The great Sol Invicti rolls and clatters into addlepate Aries and you decide that you must flee to a foreign land and take legal advice. As marauding Mars inserts his rod of authority into cranky Chiron, you drug several of the 'cauliflower ear' brigade and then steal their wallets as vamping Venus displays herself lewdly before cranky Chiron. You seize a boat from the private dock and flee into the briny, secretly plotting with your financial friend to reclaim what has been taken from you.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it may not be! But yet it is! As you set out upon the ocean wave, Uranus, the god of idiots, has unspeakable congress with the Loony Nodes, raising up a storm more powerful than any storm ever seen before in the whole history of storms! Eek! Will you survive this aquatic fury? Or will you perish beneath the waves? Click here next time and see, little hair gel vanities. For the nonce, ave!