Great trumpeting turnips but it's a ghastly start to the month! It's fractious February, with a malign beginning and an odiferous end, a feature that it has in common with the insane gods that rule this benighted universe. Egad! Especially where the odiferous end is concerned, given the appalling diet they incline to in Heaven.
Ye gods and little fishes, it's been putrid lately, hasn't it! Such cosmic effusions as we have come to know give a new layer of meaning to that work, THE CLOUD OF UNKNOWING, written by an anonymous fourteenth century cleric and lunatic. Said author will doubtless remain anonymous, as no one can remember his name. This, in turn, is probably because of the cloud about which he wrote. Or was it under which he wrote!
By my little brown bottle! How did I get onto this fatuous digression? I shall end it, saving one of us at least from death by ennui. Tremble in your ghastly pantaloons, my tragic wastrels. It is I, Asperitus! Doctor of doom and soothsaying cynic! Prepare to be unhinged by prognostications of the vilest and most bitter type. Last time, you were set to become a great detective and travel the world with a canine as your constant companion. And so it is, as cosmic shenanigans summon strange lunacy (jolly Jupiter and narcotic Neptune are involved), you seek the post (hmm) of Inspector Horse of the Yard, a traditional sinecure offered by the British constabulary to any willing idiot. Clearly you're a shoe in on that count alone! After seeing an ad in the paper for this estimable position, you arrive for the interview. Soon, you feel you have impressed those in adjudication, despite a tendency to snigger when they think you're not looking. And guess what, little nitwits! They offer you the job, even though you have no experience, no qualifications and no brains! Gadzooks! By a stroke of luck, you're in gainful employment! They give you a uniform, a strange 'sandwich board' affair rather than a police uniform. It appears to offer horse manure for sale. However, your employers tell you that, as you'll be working undercover, you need a disguise.
At this point they touch fingers to noses and nod sagely. Now! Sage nodding is a thing you understand so you return the gesture, causing waves of merriment to pass over the assembled faces. Once again you feel you have impressed. As marauding Mars returns to his retrograde point, a ghastly snaggletooth hound slobbers on the straps of the new uniform, appointing himself your faithful assistant, Oedipus Rex the wonder dog. As vamping Venus moves forward, you find the job pays a salary, unlike many of the jobs you've had before. As marauding Mars clashes with dark Pluto, underworld god, you're set loose, disguised in a sandwich board. Your mission is to scan the streets for persons of a criminal persuasion and so earn your keep.
Of course, you'll have to bridle your tongue! But, as mischievous Mercury moves to tear-stained Pisces, you gallop home and spend the first week's salary on drugs, alcohol and dog food whilst lounging around, as no one has ever explained the obligations incumbent on those in gainful employment. Mercury clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, and you receive abusive phone calls from enraged superiors that cause you to see the light. A Full Moon comes in odious Leo and you're in the saddle, as it were, on the streets in search of nefarious deeds and the perpetrators thereof. Marauding Mars enters Gemini and you don't have long to wait. Though you've been instructed to observe only, you impede pedestrians, questioning them as to their criminal intent.
But what's this? Quelle horreur! They strike at you nastily, banging your sandwich board and abusing your hound, calling him unkind names, like 'fatty' and 'gormless'. The police are summoned to the scene of this disturbance, but your brother officers refuse to take your part. In fact, they threaten you with arrest if you don't desist from your activities.
You cry aloud, 'I am Horse of the Yard! And this is Oedipus Rex, the wonder dog!' The situation deteriorates as they laugh aloud and tell you to push off! Eek! What kind of policing is this? They should at least have thrown you to the ground and given you a kicking!
But, by all the gods alive and dead, as mischievous Mercury clashes with dark Pluto, underworld lord, you realize what has happened! You're not a member of the forces. No brotherhood of boys in blue for you! This entire farce was a con to get you to advertise horse poo on a sandwich board. You've unwittingly (a familiar modus operandi) become a serf to the feudal lords of marketing and merchandise, taken in by sniggering louts who have little better to do than play practical jokes on the true seeker.
Egad! Do you realize what this means, little idiots? You're not 'Horse of the Yard' at all! And yet, as the New Moon comes in snivelling Pisces, perhaps you are, tiny dreamers! You can be whatever you wish, influenced by the excesses of jolly Jupiter, can you not, little turnips! You canter home, sulking and indulging in drug driven dreams of investigative triumph as you and Oedipus Rex become private investigators and expose the corruptions of advertising practice and the running dogs that run it. Horse of the Yard is not for the knackers just yet. Nay! Click here next month and see the demon detective and dutiful dog under starter's orders as we begin the story of 'Why the long face, Inspector Horse?' Ta! Ta!