Greetings, soggy terriers! I trust Jupiter's journey in gloomy Scorpio is not making you damp in nasty places. Egad! All manner of gruesome ghastliness may manifest in the mould of your solar twelfth house, which is where the jolly giant is currently lurking. Thus, you may develop a morbid fear of death or taxes or infection to the sexual organs.
And, speaking of morbid fear, how are you after a month of drinking Sicilian beer? Remember! Last time we left, you were set to be the face of Horse Lager, the latest thing in Sicilian brewing. Perhaps it's best not to answer the question about morbid fears! Polite converse is not what's required, especially not so late in the piece as this! Nay, indeed! That's a horse joke, by the way! What's required is a dose of prognostications, vile and bitter! And delivered while some of awful August still remains.
And so you shall have it, my silly centaur types! To recap on events already transpired, given that a shocking attack of ennui has made me late with the forecast. Grim Saturn clicker-clacked his aging bones against the ghastly flesh of imbecile Uranus, god of idiots! You bore your departure from home with typical fortitude, becoming so inebriated you couldn't remember your name and began to fantasize about being a hired assassin, a disgraced surgeon or a disillusioned evangelist. Such morbid fantasies were due to the unseemly intercourse of the great Sol Invicti and jolly Jupiter. Marauding Mars assailed cranky Chiron with the nastily erect facet of his personality and, on arriving in your new land, you caused several traffic accidents, insulted policemen and minor officials and made tasteless remarks within the hearing of elderly Sicilian politicians.
Thus, as we are now up to date, you find you must endure the ghastly glare of a Full Moon in idiot Aquarius, in the midst of unholy row. There is a deal of yelling in Sicilian but your new employers go to bat for you, arguing that, if you're the face of Horse Lager, you must behave like a hooligan as it's part of the advertising campaign. Ruffled feathers are soothed thusly. As mischievous Mercury clatters into lackwit Leo, you learn some basics of the language of your adopted country, including phrases such as 'more beer' and 'where is the toilet'. Vamping Venus lustfully leers, also in lackwit Leo, and you receive a Sicilian makeover, the effect of which is best not described for the sake of the faint-hearted, though there is a fetchingly beaded sheath knife that comes with the accoutrements. As marauding Mars gropes the private parts of Uranus, idiot god, you're trotted (another horse joke) about the homes and offices of the rich and famous in Sicily, being introduced to all and sundry. In this manner, you run the gamut of social responses you're accustomed to, i.e. being welcomed, being asked to leave, being threatened with violence, being offered sex and, most frequently, being given more beer.
Ye gods and little fishes, what's this? Ghastly planets in lackwit Leo meet with thresh and flail the attack of nasty planets in idiot Aquarius! A hideous period follows where you incite arguments, cause further traffic accidents and experience all manner of honking and yelling as you commute from one drunken assignation to the next. By my sainted aunt, little twerps! Things are so bad you consider consulting a therapist about your tragic condition, only to discover there are no therapists in Sicily, as they were outlawed at the time the Garibaldi revolution failed. Interestingly, the failure was due to the ghastly shirts that were worn by this revolutionary leader and his men, shirts of such a garish red colour they were unable to hide in the bushes like true revolutionaries. It's also interesting to note that the game of 'Sardines' was outlawed in Sardinia at this time. Enough pleasant digression! We return to the sordid tale of your wretched life! It seems that, as vamping Venus flaunts her private parts before the gaze of jolly Jupiter, you're involved in so many affairs, handshake deals, blood feuds and vendettas that it reminds you of the old days in Corinth, just a hop, step and a jump across the Aegean.
By my little brown bottle, my tiny tragedies! This cannot continue! And so it is that the benighted universe ruled by insane gods takes a hand in determining your fate. The great Sol Invicti now grinds his passage (eek) into anal Virgo, bringing a New Moon in that vexatious sign and you decide you cannot continue a career as the face of Horse Lager, as it's turning into a horse laugh at your expense. You have become the village idiot, my cretinous creatures! A role with which you're all too familiar!
Thus, you are resolute, if not bold and bloody. At the next publicity 'do', as mischievous Mercury scrapes into the shrewish sign of the Virgin, you make a shock announcement. Odds bodkins! Gadzooks! Egad! And other quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. What is it you say? Well, I'll tell you. You make a full and frank admission about your battle with the bottle, resign forthwith your membership of 'Dipsomaniacs in Denial' and declare yourself for sobriety. Needless to say, this provokes a mixed reaction from the audience, running the gamut of cheering, booing and the declaration of several vendettas and blood feuds in addition to those you already have. It should be noted that the cheering comes entirely from those so inebriated that they had no idea what you said. But, as marauding Mars farts and fornicates fantastically on the Loony South Node, will it be enough to get you sacked by your employers? Click here next time for the episode entitled 'Horse at the Knackers'. In the meantime, it's hail and farewell, my tiny turnips!