Something's creeping about in the orchard, Stubtoe.

Sweet Christ, mister Stubtoe, the sound of those badgers is getting damned loud. Impudent little swines, I fear we may be forced to fetch them a swift slap on their nipples if they don’t quieten down. FETCH MY BROOM.

Wait. Return the broom to its closet, good mister Stubtoe. It was not the badgers in the basement after all, but something altogether less comely.

Welcome, you lithe young crab-apple of a thing. I suspect you’re here for wisdom, yes? Wisdom and a cup of delicious cider? Lurking in the shadows around my door. I’m sure you didn’t think we’d see you there, slinking about with your sticky fingers.

But oh, we’ll see. We’ll definitely see, that’s a promise.

---

Aries: While passing through your local supermarket, you are suddenly gripped by a desire to taste the nectar of your childhood, a delicious, room-temperature glass of Lupin Squash. To your surprised delight, you find some, hidden away behind the Vimto and Robinson’s, in a dusty old bottle. Gleefully, you take it home and are happily gulping down your second pint before the memory hits you like a brick in the tits. There was never any Lupin Squash. That was the code word you used for when the dog tried to have sex with grandma.

Taurus: You spend a pleasant afternoon musing on the etymology of the word ‘circumference’. “Circum”, you think, idly “ - from the Latin for fat-knacker”, you suppose. And “-ference”, you hazard “from the Dutch, literally meaning a Ferret named Terrence”. You are a twat, it turns out, and know nothing of words.

Gemini: If you go down to the air-strip today, you’re in for a big surprise! If you go down to the air-strip today, you’ll never believe your eyes! For every General that ever there were is naked and horny and calling you “Sir!” - today’s the day the Generals get their genitals whipped

Cancer: Chelmsford. Half past four. Overcoat. Marmalade. Antique Sheath. These words will have meaning for you only moments before it is too late. Your power animal is: Fondue.

Leo: A challenging week. You will be commissioned by an old friend to paint them a piece in oils, depicting an old purse which they claim to be dear to them. Inevitably, it turns out to be Hitler’s purse. You are shunned roundly. Colleagues ignore you and small children steal your lunch. Possibly the preceding commissions, turning out (as they did) to be Hitler’s moustache, spine and favourite aunt, could have tipped you off as to the nature of this latest work. Deep down, you begin to concede that you just like painting Hitler.

Virgo: A funeral is in the air. Somebody very near to you has done a powerful wrong in the eyes of a great spirit whose fury will not be slow to make itself felt. You slowly spoon pints of fresh yoghurt into the underpants and nod. Yes. That’s what they’ll think. It was dead Uncle Henry. Back for revenge. With the yoghurt. In the pants. He always did really like pants. That’s what they’ll think, all right. Pants.

Libra: Yet again, Keith Chegwin mocks you with his knowledge of astrophysics. You consider changing your car-pooling arrangements, or perhaps even requesting a change of department at work, but it’s no good. Chegwin follows you, relentlessly. From job to job, town to town. Over mountain and dale. Your eyes screwed up, holding on tight to your lover, you hear her quietly mumble something about Neptune and sit bolt-upright in bed. Chegwin, again. Dressed as your wife. In the morning, he makes small-talk about comets while you try to swallow down your cornflakes. You rush to the bathroom and splash your face with cold water. When you look up, it’s no surprise. You’re Keith Chegwin. You always have been. You saunter off happily, mumbling something about solar winds.

Scorpio: It strikes you as increasingly possible that the owner of your company may have said something other than the words “booty call”. You zip up and re-open Microsoft Excel. Shhh. Act like nothing happened.

Sagittarius: It is your second day in your new position as Shaman of the Bees. You stole the gift of fire from the Gods and took it to bees, to illuminate their culture and works and free them from darkness. You made peace between Humanity and the fearsome Bee Nation by arranging a marriage between the human Katy Price and Thrungar, the Stinged One. Soon, you will join them in the ultimate Bee Ritual and take a Bee Wife of your own. As the bees see it, though, you set fire to some bees, stapled a large bee to a picture of a stupid human woman and then tried to make love to another really confused bee. Many of the bees seem disappointed with this entire situation, even the ones you furnished with tiny hats. They politely ask you to leave

Capricorn: There is nothing wrong with your plans to build a Lego Volvo. Everyone likes Lego. Everyone likes Volvos. It’ll be FUCKING SWEET. Anyway, fuck them. What are they going to make? A fucking Sticklebrick Renault Picasso? Oh, fucking yes.

Aquarius: Your attempts to gain larger, more environmentally-friendly eggs for Hertfordshire, by enlarging the exit from which the eggs appear is, as it turns out, misguided. It is some considerable time until people allow you to forget about what they come to refer to as the Hemel Hempstead Hen-Dremel Genocide

Pisces: You are the queen of tiny pies. You are the queen of tiny pies. You hear them tell their tiny lies, but still they rest beneath your eyes, these miniature steak and liver sighs, the whispering pastries criticise BUT THEY CAN’T SEE YOUR BAKED SURPRISE, YOU’LL CRUSH THEM WITH YOUR SAVOURY THIGHS! HOW DARE THEY TELL THESE TINY LIES?! YOU’LL SMASH THEIR LIDS AND GOBBLE THEIR KIDS AND SLICE AND DICE THEIR PASTRY EYES! You are the queen of tiny pies. You are the queen of tiny pies. You ARE the queen of tiny pies.

---

Ho hum, tiddly-tum the wheels turn and back you come. Hurry now, my young scrumper of knowledge. Jump over the stile and run home with your arms full of truths before mister Stubtoe gets out of the gate with his hounds. They’re not trained to kill, oh no! Or main, or hardly bite at all. But they are really quite lonely and it’s awful dark outside.

I’d be getting home, if I were you, young ‘un.

Mister Stubtoe. See them to the door.

Cold Circle

I tried your ring back on today

Just to feel its weight

It didn't drag me to my knees this time

But still I suffocate

Don't know what I expected

Maybe thought that I had broke the curse

I didn't fret, I didn't genuflect

I guess it could be worse

---

One day, I'm gonna throw this thing away

And I'll forget you

One day, I'll make good on the price to pay

For having met you

---

Five lonely years I was there

but you were only there for you

The cost of our connection

Five years of introspection, doomed

The circle meant to bind me

Can't wait to put behind me, the fool

It's hard to quantify

The damage that I've managed to undo

---

One day, I'm gonna throw this thing away

And I'll forget you

One day, I'll make good on the price to pay

For having met you

---

One year since we last talked

Suppose I've still got some miles left to walk

You raise your head again

But not for kindness, not to play at friends

Show up begging out of the blue

With one last thing that I can do for you

One last thing you can do for me

Cut the ties and set me free

---

You said that you would crumble stars

But all I knew was crashing cars

for you

I find it hard to contemplate

When all that's left is condensate

of "I do"

------

One day, I'm gonna throw this thing away

And I'll forget you

One day, I'll make good on the price to pay

For having met you

---

You've gone back where you belong

Leaving me alone to sing my song

I hope that you're unhappy now

Hope you suffer while I'm growing strong

If I sound a bitter man,

full of hatred, that's because I am.

But trust me, I'm not finished here

You put the lie to all my fears

I've got a plan.