Anyone who’s spent any time with Poppy when she’s reading a newspaper knows how much she enjoys reading out horoscopes to anyone who’ll listen. Yesterday was Leftwing Idiot’s turn and he was complaining about the quality of the prediction for him. He said it sounded like someone had just strung a load of words together at random. Poppy paused for a moment and then asked me if I’d ever let my tics write a horoscope. I said I hadn’t, so tonight the three of us sat down and put that right.
It wasn’t exactly a séance, but Leftwing Idiot called out the names of the star signs and my tics responded with the following sage advice:
Aries is doing well at work, but poorly in their sophisticated cat food dog competition. Aries, you call yourself a bank manager but you’re not very good at talking about Arthur Daley. Don’t love yourself too much, it’s bad for you and makes you blind. Don’t kill Jill Dando on a Saturday afternoon, it’s already happened.
You’re actually just a kitten. You should talk about sheepdogs more when you’re making speeches at Velociraptor training camps, and maybe you should dress like a punk to get a girl. At work you should sand down your bear and there’s always milk to be considered.
Oh Gemini you have been naughty with the sandwiches. You shouldn’t put champagne in your baby’s bottle. You should learn to talk about shepherds and then you’ll get more money in your job as a builder. And move to Nunhead.
Cancer’s are great and lovely and kind and they wear their own wings on their trousers but they shouldn’t talk about ships. The moons are colliding in your algorithms and you shouldn’t talk about Ben any more.
Leo, what noise do lions make? Stop being an alligator, you shouldn’t love dogs, you should love yourself and you should hate sand, more than you actually do. And at work you should write a cheque for Barbados.
Oh Virgo, what were you doing with yourself? You shouldn’t have a Saturday afternoon job, you should have a Friday evening milkmaid up your skirts. Virgo, you should try better at lining up your stationery because it’s all wonky. Brush your hair more often and you’ll get a better boyfriend.
You should just get off the scales, stop weighing yourself and find a partner who doesn’t care about your weight. You’d be happier and more contented if you just accept that your job is good enough for you. Maybe you should just talk to your Nan.
Oh Scorpio, you do terrify a bear. Saturn’s rings make you look like a sheet of music. But you couldn’t score if you fucked a goat, not with that Banksy impersonator in your pocket. Get rid of your Hastings lookalike and then you’ll be OK.
Shave your vagina and talk about your nipples more.
We should think about taking you off milk and putting you on dairy farming. So stop drinking milk and take up dairy farming as a job. Pluto says your mum’s a cunt but don’t worry because Pluto’s a silly old dog with floppy ears and you’re much better than that. And maybe you should iron your own clothes and look like Kate Moss. Oh Capricorn, the moons are feeling sad about Santa, you should put donkeys up your priority list and maybe talk about bears.
Oh Aquarius, what are we going to do about mermaid socks? There is a problem with mermaid socks that you need to address. And when you find a man called Brian, leave your wife.
So Pisces, Luther Vandross didn’t write music so that you could be sad – he wrote it so that you could fuck apricots. Try harder at work, don’t get bogged down in the mundane tasks, just do the things that are going to make you look good. Pisces, if you feel under-appreciated at home, it’s because you don’t do enough. Pisces, don’t start swimming because your sperm didn’t.
So, sound advice there for everyone – it’s uncannily accurate I’m sure you’ll admit. But just in case it’s not, please don’t hold me accountable if you do what your horoscope tells you.