Ave, tendentious mendacities! Really, when one thinks (as one so often does), so much has happened since your journey to Corinth and your activities with the Corinthian Popular Army, contumely creatures one and all with their plastic swords and rat insignias. Many were the glorious victories that you slept through whilst inebriated. And then there was the dark tale of espionage and treachery on the road to Athens! One that, oddly, led to your current status as a saint and your recent performance as the traffic light that saved this ancient city during the great blackout.
But the question is 'what will you do now?' or at least more correctly, 'once you stop dribbling, glowing and twitching in a sainted manner (to put it kindly), what will be the next port of call in this farcical voyage, risibly referred to as your life?' On that very note, we are due a dose of the vile and bitter prognostications, vintage awful April, in this instance. So why don't we immediately gulp them down and see what answers are to be found in their fell and murky depths and acrid taste.
Great gods alive and dead! What's this? We find, in fact, the precise matter we have been discussing! The direction of your life! How unnervingly apropos! There must be something in the water here in Heaven that makes me the grand prognosticator that I am. Mischievous Mercury cavorts in a cycle of perverse reversal in Aries and you stand in the market place, flashing in the proper shades of red, yellow and green as the traffic largely obeys your alternating shades of luminescence. I say 'largely' because they are Greek, after all, and do not warm easily to instruction by devices. Thus we find you wondering if this is your lot in life now! Directing traffic and commemorated forever as the eponymous hero of St Archer's Day! No romance other than the odd ironic proposal of marriage from an idle onlooker. No gambling, saving rain forests or indeed any of the activities for which your terminally optimistic sign is legend. Only shining lights, saliva and saltations. How disagreeable! No one even offers you money anymore!
By my little brown bottle, you've been reduced to the position of a mere functionary, in service to the state! Eek! We can't have that now, can we! Thus, as a New Moon in arrogant Aries brings a Solar Eclipse to your fifth house of pleasure, you resign your post and wander off into the distance, during the afternoon lull when few are abroad and those who are ignore traffic signals altogether. As mischievous Mercury moves out of his perverse cycle of reversal and marauding Mars conjoins in unseemly fashion with nasty Neptune, you stride out with your odd erratic gait in search of new horizons. However, with poor health and no work (gruesome planets in cloddish Taurus) and no home to go to (marauding Mars wrestling with miserable Saturn), it may be that St Archer of the Tombs is in need of vocational guidance. Such guidance as may be written in the stars is an elusive quantity, to judge by the pitiful condition of abject despair in which we find you at the Full Moon in gloomy Scorpio, one that brings a Lunar Eclipse to your solar twelfth house (eek).
This latter (the twelfth house) is a dreadful place filled with sorrow and other nasty things that are the hidden enemies of your natural bonhomie! No astrologers speak well of it and all who have planets there are unhappy and ill-starred, living to a ripe old age in their lugubrious estate as the gods don't like them and don't want them ever to come to the joys of Heaven.
Thus, we find you tear-stained at the roadside in consequence of this ghastly cosmic event (the Full Moon in Scorpio in case you've forgotten due to my mind-numbing tendency to ramble on about inconsequential details). As vamping Venus clashes with jolly Jupiter, you behave like a frightful wretch, throwing yourself about in the dust in the exaggerated manner you like to adopt that reminds one of the worst excesses of alternative theatre in the Sixties! As mischievous Mercury clashes with the giant one, you rail at Heaven and Earth about the ghastly fate meted out to you and deny for all to hear (if anyone is listening to a dust-covered lunatic on the roadside) the existence of a compassionate god. Eek!
And, as if those assertions are not sufficient to day, you decide that, as vamping Venus clashes with nasty Neptune, you will eschew the path of mindless optimism and from hereon in become a pessimist! No longer St Archer of the Tombs will you be! Rather you will be St Archer of the Gloom! A pox upon the gods, your cry! A curse upon them too, you add. How bold! But, great Caesar's ghost, my tiny addlepates! Have you forgotten the immutable law to be applied in all dealings with the insane gods? It appears you have! While the gods know little of compassion, they have written the book on revenge, especially as enacted against the miscreant who offers slight or slur on their character.
Click here next time and see what form the revenge of the gods will take as they hunt you down and punish you for the sin of insolent pride. Ta! Ta!