 - By the breasts of the Virgin and all her sacred orifices, it's you, O virginal ninnies! Saturn, grim measurer of the ghastly march of life has recently targeted you in a nasty campaign involving the burdens of responsibility, isolation, duress and ill-health, just to test your mettle, or simply out of cruelty. While you feel relieved of the weight of the hideous taskmaster in your sign, it's only because he's moved to the next one to make life a misery in matters germane to that arena, keeping an orderly sequence of miseries that will, in fact, tick all the boxes between birth and death. Yes, tiny tootling do-gooders, Saturn is in for the duration and that's where we begin, for gloomy Saturn is now in loathsome Libra and your house of dosh. And, if that's not enough for breakfast, lunch and tea, the gruesome lord of karma grapples with dark Pluto, underworld lord, residing in hideous Capricorn. Thus, lifestyle and money will be sadly mismatched and you'll certes have to stage a drama to transform your wretched tragedy. As ghastly Saturn has inured you to feats of endurance and their accompanying dullness and misery, you'll need a strategy to resurrect your ailing fortunes. You decide to make clay models for sale, 'salt and pepper' shakers in the form of demons and angels, and herb jars, flower pots and small figurines of animals or smiling obedient children, these last a substitute for your own that have been such a disappointment.
But what's this? By my sainted aunt, it's dastardly December and manic Mars hits reverse in lackwit Leo and your solar twelfth house (shriek). Gross males oppose you in secret or harbour hidden desires of an appalling nature. Nasty chaps will re-peg your underwear and inner garments on the clothesline, using brazen fire engine red pegs that clash with the subtle shades of lavender, grey, powder blue or the more practical brown. Egotistical actors will erupt in fisticuffs or dramas as you search for a gold belt or handbag in a second hand clothing shop. You'll trip over sharp projections or blunt edges in your haste to get things done or you'll secretly experiment with alchemy to make precious metal from the base.
But it comes to naught, my twittering twerps, as eclipses eclipse you and mischievous Mercury hits perverse reverse in ghastly depressing Capricorn. A religious group objects to the demon salt-shakers, so you take them off the shelf, actually putting them to good use by hurling them at the clothes peg vandals. You try to write a self-help book but find you're unable to do so until you realize the best self-help book to write will be one about how to write a self-help book. You set to the task and, after a detailed online search for the right outlet, you soon have a first draft on the PC of an alternative publisher in the sticks. The creature feels you're onto a good thing and, more importantly, is both ravishing and compliant in manner.
It's all on from there, little loonies, as jolly Jupiter, crapulous lord of fortune rolls into snivelling Pisces, bringing love unrequited to your wretched life, as jittery January 2010 unfolds. It isn't fair, little tweeters! You're supposed to suffer and serve humanity (yawn), not find happiness! Ah well! By all the gods, a working camaraderie and soon a friendship develops, as this charming and wealthy page-turner makes you laugh, cooks seafood to perfection and radiates a 'come hither' glamour that few even among the gods could match. Certainly not the war gods, as they belch, fart, stink of B.O. and halitosis, revealing tenderness though such niceties of expression as 'come over here'.
Fractured February continues the unrequited state, unsettling your private parts to such a degree you download a screen-saver of this wispy, delicious object of desire. As narcotic Neptune gropes cranky Chiron, you grope yourself (eek) on the office desk, opening your bottom drawers in a fit of passion, making innovative use of stapler, photocopier and a water based adhesive in this attack of solitary concupiscence. You also contract a computer virus, make rose petal ice blocks to cool you in the heat and sack your Swedish massage therapist, as you're tired of having your buttocks pounded to the tune of Fernando or Knowing Me, Knowing You from Abba Gold.
Then, in awful April, it all takes a turn for the worse, carping analytical types, as it does in a benighted universe, ruled by the insane gods. Ghastly Saturn reverses into your sign, causing you to feel depressed, burdened and alone. This comes in tandem as mischievous Mercury stirs the cauldron of woe by putting the digit on 'reverse' in tragic Taurus, sending the publisher overseas to wheel and deal over the book while you're home alone (eek), working on revisions. Cranky Chiron ups the agony by slipping into tearful Pisces and a fortune-teller reads your cards, predicting frenetic changes for your immediate future, though they'll be hidden behind the veil until the last possible moment.
You worry of course but not for long as, lawks a mercy and great gods aghast, in the merry month of May, it all comes true, my carping wretches! Rampant Uranus roars into addled Aries and your publisher returns from a far horizon to lay before you a fortune from foreign shores where they loved the book, and lay before you in a very personal and carnal fashion. What occurs next defies description, even given the lexicon of blasphemy, execration and profanity that lives in my mighty yet twisted mind. Speaking of twisted, the word's pivotal in your eccentric path through Hell's Gate, 2010. After weeks of passion, hard work and celebration (yawn), jolly Jupiter, crapulous lord of fortune joins in unspeakable congress with Uranus, idiot god, in the fiery sign of the Ram and your paramour and publisher arrives one night, dressed darkly, smiling enigmatically, bidding you accompany him. Ye gods and little fishes, what's this?
The creature spirits you off to a secret subterranean location, as elves and fairies sing eerily for the slaphappy Solstice. By my sainted aunt, what's occurring? You walk an avenue of fires, strangely dressed folk and mystic symbols, looking about in wonderment until a quiet voice makes known that this is a gathering of occult devotees and you are invited, by dint of the secret knowledge displayed in your book, to pursue power beyond your wildest dreams. A cloaked figure emerges from the shimmering dark before you, intoning the words, 'do you consent?' You tremble, unable to answer. And there, sadly, due to terminal boredom and creeping ennui, I must leave you until next time. My little brown bottle awaits. Ave!
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