Greetings, wretched boobies! We left you last time amid the ruins of your latest venture, as you stood with enemies about you and lawsuits pending. This fuss was due to a fiasco entitled, THE GAME'S UP, BURGLAR, BILL, a computer game based on a Victorian crime novel.
As it transpired, the rights to this eccentric work were held in perpetuity by a trust that cares for homeless children in Sicily. This is a body ready to act in the traditional Sicilian manner for the honour of the waifs in their care. Thus, your brilliant idea was swallowed by this unintended breach of copyright. Instanter did Sicilian lawyers and hard men arrive to claim the dosh that you had taken from the little ones! You were in debt! And also were you red-faced before the media types that had purchased the rights to this work and over whom you'd lorded when it seemed your triumph rang full and sweet. Now the hollow tones seem to ring a death knell for Inspector Horse! Eek! Is it the knackers yard of life for you? We shall see.
As marauding Mars assails the private parts of narcotic Neptune, ghastly persons of the male persuasion caper, posture and threaten, said creatures being both those of the legal profession and those from the world of the media and publishing. As you fend off their threats, mischievous Mercury moves into perverse reverse in lackwit Leo and the cancellations of overseas publishing deals roll in, one upon the next. Jolly Jupiter now launches his crapulous bulk forwards and the stark realization of the fragile fiction of Horse of the Yard and indeed the very fiction of your entire wretched existence comes home in no uncertain terms. As the supple yet perverted messenger rolls backward into slimy Cancer, we find you on the phone to creditors. You make specious explanations as to why you can't pay your bills and also express in oleaginous manner (in keeping with the Sicilian theme) how soon you will pay them if you can have more time. You also make flattering remarks about their personage and family members in the hope of holding back the gates of Hell, set to spew forth demons to poke your bottom and gnaw your exposed innards. Ugh! And, to add insult to injury, a condition so often experienced in a benighted universe ruled by insane gods, the Full Moon turns her ghastly glaring eye upon the world from the grim sign of the Goat. Thus, you're forced to beg money from one of the odious media types so you can pay the bus fare back to the cold water slum you've been forced to inhabit from the onset of this penury.
Of course, one can imagine (by means of dark nightmares) the unspeakable price that you're forced to pay for this grovelling, though the soundproof room in which the disgusting acts are inflicted upon your tender areas ensures the sensitive do not have to endure the screams of pain and humiliation. Every cloud, as they say! However, as vamping Venus disports herself lasciviously for the leering glance of dark Pluto, underworld god, you find yourself returning to the well for a further ghastly draught. This is because you've nothing to do in a cold water flat and you've begun enjoying the screaming, as it's a powerful emotional release for your childhood misery while mischievous Mercury still roams in the gloaming of neurotic Cancer and your solar eighth house. Also, it should be noted jolly Jupiter has been teaching you the spiritual meaning of suffering, futility and wretched misery as he wanders the odious confines of grim Scorpio and your solar twelfth house.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt! It's an absurd turn of fortune, such as always comes to rescue you from the ruin of your life and decisions. Aargh! How infuriating for the rest of us, with our ringside seats for an imminent demise! Hmm! Flounce and stamp in chagrin! Vamping Venus then flashes the parts that should remain concealed as she sideswipes the Loony Nodes and slithers into slimy Cancer. It seems that you have taken the eye of one of the Sicilian folk and the pity of your plight urges the creature to make you an offer you can't refuse. The trust that manages the orphanage also owns a brewery (mindful of the needs of the waifs in later life) and said brewery is to put a new lager on the market, a hideous undertaking made from local barley and herbs. Doubtless its intoxicating draught will set the idle rich simpering about success and the hoi polloi screaming for a favourite football team. The trustee in question has taken a fancy to your nom de detection, Horse of the Yard. The proposal is that you give your name to the brew. Horse Lager, it will be called! A name suggestively resonant, you must agree!
All this occurs as mischievous Mercury grapples fatefully with dark Pluto and marauding Mars barrels belligerently into anal Virgo, a placement well suited to the brewer. It should be noted this occupation dovetails neatly with your favourite vice, i.e. drinking so excessively that you no longer realize how idiotic you sound and thus will talk incessantly until, mercifully, unconsciousness prevails. In just the time it takes for ghastly planets to fart in nasty aspect (no time at all really), the great Sol Invicti rolls drunkenly into lackwit Leo, bringing a New Moon in the asinine sign of the Lion. Thus, you leave your cold water digs and move to Sicily to be the figurehead of the newest lager on the market.
Mischievous Mercury moves direct and its seems Horse of the Yard takes life at the gallop once more, especially in the run to the public toilets as you're being paid to publicly drink the hideous brew. And therein lies the rub! But what internal scouring and scarring this rub will leave, we shall see! Will this grim Sicilian brew leave you praying for a moment of sobriety? Click here next time for the idle of awful August and so discover, my wittering ninnies! In the meantime, hail and farewell!