- What ho, flatulent types! We left you last time amid a press of flesh, clothed and unclothed, as persons in authority attempted to suspend the activity of other persons in flagrante delicto. In this instance, you were of the latter group rather than the former. Since then, I have overslept and am late with the monthly forecast. You will have missed me as you would miss a regular meal, one full of fibre that is good for the bowel, for this is how I see these words of irritation. I give you food for thought, tiny bovine boofheads! And now, late as it may be, another meal is prepared for your delectation. Sit and sup at the table of doleful December for it groans with the culinary delights of prognostications both vile and bitter. Eat hearty! Drink deep while some of the wretched month remains to us.
As an entrée, I will recount what has occurred in recent times. Mischievous Mercury turned retrograde in silly Sagittarius and a screaming row broke out between you, the bright young thing, and them, the ubiquitous 'them', figures of authority, always ready to ban or prohibit in a vain and futile effort to wrest control of a benighted universe ruled by insane gods. You seethed with bullish frustration, my future shoes and leather jackets. Was your global orgy to be stopped before it has properly begun, cut off in its prime by the power of bureaucracy and despite?
Then outré forces took control of the situation. Marauding Mars and vamping Venus conjoined in unseemly fashion then clashed with narcotic Neptune and the shaman began to wail in an eldritch manner, beating upon her/his own person as on a drum. The bisexual doctor joined in the fun and soon the lights began to waver and weird smoke, as of spirits dancing, filled the air. And all the naked bodies then began to wail and beat themselves in the manner of erotic percussionists. All at once, as the New Moon came in silly Sagittarius, clasping the perverse, reverse messenger to her heaving bosom, the myrmidons of Mammon and Caesar began to shed their clothing, mesmerized by these pagan rhythms and the vast expanse of shining, sweaty naked flesh.
Great gods alive and dead, my tiny cretins! The world orgy has just now struck a blow for international hedonism and art, which are much the same thing of course. Vamping Venus enters silly Sagittarius and clashes with Uranus, the idiot god. You throw wide the doors, crank up the volume and then invite the world to join the search for pleasure and ecstasy. Mischievous Mercury moves forward as miserable Saturn clashes with cranky Chiron and you begin to direct this live and moving spectacle that surpasses even the great days of Babylon and Rome. You are the cappuccino Caligula, drunk with passion on the wild fierceness of the forces you command.
The great Sol Invicti grinds his way to gloomy Capricorn, visiting yet another miserable bloody Solstice on the world. You stride about, delivering a mighty, philosophical oration on the nature of pleasure and pain and how they act as gateways to enlightenment. Had anyone there turned their attention briefly from all the nudity and sex, they may have been, for a moment, faintly interested, so stirring are your words. Oh, by the way! Happy Christmas, little bovine types! And what a Christmas dinner this is turning out to be! More fun than a family gathering and nearly the same amount of sex! The gears of Heaven grind in a frightening manner as the gods play marbles with the fate of men (and women too, of course). Marauding Mars thrusts his evil armature into silly Sagittarius and your solar eighth house and out come the whips, the braziers and the hot irons. By my little brown bottle, this is getting a bit serious. But then, after all, you did talk about pleasure and pain did you not!
The Full Moon comes in neurotic Cancer while the Lunar Nodes descend into the hell of your solar twelfth and sixth houses, the signs of arrogant Aries and loony Libra. Ye gods and little fishes, this could get a bit sticky, tiny boofheads! And, what's worse, it's the recently denuded myrmidons of the capitalist class that are the most brazen. You look about you and see many noted churchmen and political figures casting aside their robes of office and joining in the frey. You look across at the shaman, a rather attractive figure, you now think, and catch her/his eye. As marauding Mars clashes with Uranus, the idiot god, you exchange a knowing wink as the screaming becomes quite deafening. You nod unspoken consent, grab your clothes and head off to a café down the street. Once there, you order cappuccino and cake and fall to discussing water features, landscape gardening and the magical properties of certain stones. Much more relaxing! It's all very well being a bright young thing, but there's no pleasure in something that loud and painful. After all, you've nothing to prove. Not even to your mother. You can learn to live with the atrocious standard lamp by hanging your underwear on it to dry on cold damp nights. You go home with your shaman lover for more sex and an afternoon nap before you welcome in the New Year. Auld lang syne, my bullish twits! See you here next month!