Hola and hooray to you, crapulent children of jolly Jove! What it is to have the deity to whom you owe your very existence, rolling round Heaven all day, tossing thunderbolts at hapless humanity, quaffing an excess of anything that can be imbibed or ingested and having sex with any breathing warm blood that displays an available orifice!
In many religions of the world, meeting one's maker is considered a sobering experience. Obviously not so should you happen to encounter the bibulous and concupiscent immortal under whose auspices your were born. You would be beatified in a manner not pleasing to Saint Paul, author of the Epistles to the Corinthians and other great anaesthetics of the elder liturgical tradition. And, 'beatified' is at the nub of things right now for last time we left you, you were in the process of becoming a mad saint, a transformation of which we may say you have at last found the only vocation for which you are truly fit.
Thus comes the time, as it always does, my little planks, for us to imbibe of the cup of vile and bitter prognostications, vintage fearful February in this instance. Oh great gods alive and dead, the fit takes me once again and I see visions, terrible to behold and all of them involving you! Shriek!
We left you last time in the midst of a fiery sermon that hailed your arrival as a lunatic evangelist in the streets of Athens. The great Sol Invicti conjoins with nasty Neptune while vamping Venus enters idiot Aquarius, all in your solar third house! Crowds gather as moths to the flame of your saintly madness, mystically attracted by your ecstatic rant and growing aura of beatific light. Jolly Jupiter turns retrograde and your wild speech takes a somewhat depressing tone. But, as the general public prefers a dose of doom and gloom from their prophets, the vast assemblage grows greater! Vacant minds and barren spirits reach out for the kind of twaddle that is generally uttered in the moment of spiritual transport, twaddle such as issues from the maw of St Archer of the Tombs (that's you).
Marauding Mars enters gloomy Capricorn and you urge a repentant populace to cast aside goods and money, the bindings of materialism (in your direction, of course). This they do! You leap and cavort, catching flying currency and valuables without missing a beat of your impassioned urgings. The New Moon comes in Aquarius, sign of the idiot god and you are hailed by all there present as the new messiah. You gather the swag you've collected, promising it shall be given to the poor forthwith (snigger). Ghastly planets cavort in nasty aspect and you are feted by adoring crowds that seek to heal themselves with the touch from the hem of your garment or the flying flecks of spittle that issue from your holy lips.
Great gods alive and dead! Even in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods this is lunacy beyond remedy. Ah well! How sad! Never mind! As marauding Mars harmonizes with idiot Uranus, you are installed by wealthy followers in a great house where your every need is tended. Mischievous Mercury enters tear-stained Pisces and your solar fourth house. The great Sol Invicti follows after. A spiritual family of retainers now manages your career and organizes your appointments and appearances. Business booms. Tour buses stop for refreshment in your square to be harangued in a beguiling manner. You're listed as a sacred site in the guidebooks. Even the Athens Tourist Information Centre has your pamphlets in the window. It seems your plans are going rather well.
But what's this! Great Heavens and dancing monkeys! A benighted universe reveals it has a greater plan! Mischievous Mercury conjoins in unseemly fashion with Uranus, the idiot god, and the cosmos creaks and groans with terrible creakings and groanings. By my little brown bottle, it cannot be! Aargh and eek! It is! Cranky Chiron enters idiot Aquarius! Great Caesar's ghost! How many more planets are going to gather in that execrable sign! But that's not the worst of it! On no! Not by a long chalk! The hand of god (an idiot one) now reaches down in a drunken stupor to touch you with a probing finger (eek! I hope it's wearing rubber gloves) as you stand in the market square, ranting and cavorting as befits a mad saint going about mad and sainted business. A random act of divine intervention is about to take control of your life!
The Heavens open! Lighting flashes, kindling your body with spirit fire. Aargh! You tremble in every limb, twitching and frothing. Holy spittle flies from your luminescent lips, healing lepers and cripples, causing serial killers to repent and even curing a passing corporate banker of his flatulence. A Full Moon comes in irritating Virgo as the great Sol Invicti conjoins with Uranus, the idiot god! There you stand! A twitching, dribbling, saltatious living icon of holy lunacy! Great gods alive and dead! What's going to happen to you?
As I'm feeling unwell and bored, I shall retire to my boudoir and embrace the brown bottle and the silver tube. Should I happen to awake next month in time to write some more of this outrageous tripe, I shall undoubtedly do so! Ta! Ta!