Ye gods and little fishes, my cream-faced loons! There's a Full Moon in silly Sagittarius and yet you have no kind soul about you to tell you what to do! Gadzooks! I shall have to remedy that! It is I, my daft wretches! Asperitus! Bard of buffoons and piffling prophet! I am here to advise you on the matter of making your sad and tragic life even worse than it already is.
Now, last time, we left you writing a self-help book. Will it be on one of the great and testing topics of our time, such as the Velcro strap versus the shoelace or the importance of matching socks! Or will you break new ground and write a weighty tome on the making of a modern drug cabinet, the seven best uses for the gold marker pen or how to tell if it's actually twenty past two. By my sainted aunt, let us waste no more time in idle speculation! Let us instead imbibe straightway of the bitter draught. I am the great prognosticator and this is prognostication time, my tearful finny folk!
You're all of a tizzy in the wake of the Full Moon, my ghastly wretches, for loudmouthed persons in authority have spoken harshly to you, seeking to banish you from their presence because of the level of annoyance you create. Cruel but fair! Thus, you flee to the nearest drapers to purchase a sheet to hide under as the old one is all but worn out. As vamping Venus slinks lasciviously into lackwit Leo, you run to the counter of the nearest purveyor of fine quality bed linen only to find that the establishment is run by a crusty old Roman bugger who's so busy shouting at the staff that you become quite distrait and hide under a bed. You then quickly fall to bye-byes. But, by the giggling of the insane gods, you soon awake to find you're locked in for the night! By my sainted aunt! How alarming!
That's a pun, by the by. Thus, you begin to weep and wail so loudly and miserably that, when the nightwatchman cometh, he insists you go without even reporting the matter to the police as he says he never wants to set eyes on you again or be in your vicinity. We've all felt like that! And yet your travail doesn't end there! On arrival home, you find you're locked out, in an unsettling perverse reversal of the previous. It seems your parents are displeased with these 'night owl' activities or it may be that they have 'gone out' in sympathy with the night staff at the drapers. It's about this time you realize you're filthy rich and the author of a 'soon to be published' (perhaps that should be 'soon to be written') self help book.
And so it is, my tiny turnips, that as the ghastly New Moon comes in supple but perverted Gemini, you buy yourself a home of your own where you can lock yourself in but no one can lock you out, unless of course you do it yourself by mistake, a factor that must always be taken into account when you're involved. But what's this? By all the gods alive and dead, it's a cosmic test of your resolve, my wittering twits! Mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse in slimy Cancer, just as you try to open the door to your new home sweet home. Thus it is the key won't turn in the lock, the power hasn't been put on and the phone is still in the name of a recently deceased member of a powerful mafia family. As the great Sol Invicti has his evil way with dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, you manage to overcome the first set of obstacles but still receive enigmatic messages and dastardly threats in a telephonic manner, causing you to order a mountain of sheets from the drapers. You may recall that you have a philosophy involving the idea that if you hide from difficulty, it will go away. Hmm! As it has never ever worked so far, there may be reason to question the validity of the tactic. However, you're not one to give up on a thing just because it's an abject failure, otherwise the solution to your problems would be glaringly obvious.
But enough of that! On with the cosmic show, for the insane gods have a lot left in store for you, despite their obvious deficiencies, and yours! As if to prove a point, the great Sol Invicti rolls drunkenly into slimy Cancer, visiting another dread Solstice on an overburdened world! Thus, you decide to hold a 'sheet' party, inviting all of your friends (you always have plenty when you have money) to come and hide under coloured sheets, sing party songs, spill their drinks on your expensive sea green carpet and steal your gold pens.
But what's this? Great gods alive and dead! A most startling thing now startlingly occurs. You're in the midst of a rousing rendition of 'My Heart Belongs To Daddy' (with actions) while your friends are drowning themselves in alcohol in between bouts of hysterical laughter when the roar of powerful motors splits the night. You stop what you're doing (small mercies) and race to the window to look out. Quelle horreur, fishy types! In the street you see a fleet of black cars with tinted glass, the very same kind they used in all of the gangster movies that have caused you to take out your sheet and hide under the seat after the first ten minutes. Eek and lawks a mercy! What will you do?
You urge your drunken friends to sing loudly and drown out the noise of this insistent menace. However, most of them are unconscious, except for one wag that starts whistling the theme from 'The Godfather'. By all that's holy, is this a world without compassion? Is it? Grim Saturn grinds the soft flesh of narcotic Neptune with his bony bits and your old trouble comes back. You're immobilized by fear, frozen like a portrait under glass as the ghastly month of jaded June brings a second Full Moon (egad), this one in gloomy Capricorn.
And so it is we leave you, frozen fishes in a window, with a roomful of drunken friends (so called) in your rear (eek) and a street full of shadowy overcoated figures, emerging from limousines of dark renown. Odds bodkins, fishy types! What will happen to you in this parlous pass? Click here next month and all will be revealed! For the nonce, ave!