Well, the sun is just rising out here at Snort Towers and I’m taking in all in from the hot tub on my porch which I’m currently sharing with my gorgeous personal assistant Astrid, a bottle of Jack, four fingers of king-hell crank, 200 Marlboro, twelve bags of weed and a bowl of Rice Krispies.
Yes, as the medics say, there’s nothing like a good breakfast to set a man up for the day.
And I need a good kick-start after a long, magical night spent dancing in the moonlight with Astrid on the great lawn. Where would the big beat be without our faithful lunar companion, eh? There’d have been no Philo classic, no ‘Moondance’ from Van and no loony Moon to bash the shit out of the drums for The ‘Oo.
So we figured a bit of nude jitterbugging by the light of the silvery moon was the least we could do to pay tribute to our celestial friend - and also celebrate the splendid results of a scientific investigation which have just been released in Denmark. You may have read about this survey: it’s the one which proves, beyond all doubt and dispute, that astrology is a total fucking con.
Now, that’s hardly news to rational beings like you, me and Lemmy, but the findings seem to have come as something of a shock to the millions of dingbats who like to think that the position of Mars at the time they entered the world has a significant bearing on the course of their lives.
But no, the boffins checked and cross-checked all the relevant data for 15,000 people – I mean, that’s almost as many as saw Foghat at the Long Beach Arena back in ’72 – and, lo and behold, they discovered that there isn’t the tiniest shred of evidence to support the notion that astrology has any basis in fact whatsoever.
Again, smart folk like you, me and Philthy Animal Taylor already knew that, but there are still a lot of gullible fools out there who think that if they consult a professional astrologer they’ll be doing something other than taking good money, rolling it into a ball and throwing it in the fire.
Needless to say, the powers that don’t be have tried to fight back. Some class of an astrology spokesperson was quoted in one of the papers making what he seemed to think was a foolproof counter-argument: since the moon controls the tides, he twittered, then surely it is reasonable to think that the planets in the solar system exert their own kind of pull on the peoples of the earth
Eh, no it isn’t, you stupid twat.
Poor Sap
Here, look, I’ll demonstrate: say, an astrologer gets into the tub here beside me and Astrid. Well, obviously, the first thing I do is punch him on the nose and throw him back out. Fine. I will certainly be “exerting an influence” on the poor sap. However, it would be a rum do indeed if at the exact same time I’m punching his lights out here in Snort Towers, an astrologer in Cork felt the force of the same blow and was also bowled over backwards. This would be an outcome to be dearly wished, of course, but I’m afraid it just ain’t going to happen.
It’s a matter of distance, see. And, while no astronomer me, I think it’s safe to say that Mars is a bit further from Sam than Sam is from Cork, even allowing for long delays at the Red Cow Roundabout.
Anyway, there’s also the little matter that the power exerted by the moon is called gravity and it has fuck all to do with whether you’re about to meet a tall, dark handsome man, win 2 euro on a scratch card or earn the approval of your workmates by remaining calm in the face of crisis.
And even if, for argument’s sake, the “power” of the stars was somehow metaphysical in nature, there’s still something I’ve never really understood about the modus operandi of the astrologers. And, I mean, the self-styled “serious” astrologers who like to make a distinction between the horoscopes in the papers – which are just so much harmless fun, apparently – and the complex web of charts and dates and times and mathematics which these geezers use to determine your true place in the cosmos.
A key factor, they insist, is the precise moment of your birth. Very good. To recap: the mystical power of the stars is apparently of such a magnitude that it can reach down across millions of miles, negotiate the earth’s atmosphere and all the cloud layers, penetrate the walls of the maternity hospital and find the very bed in the very ward where your poor mother is about to deliver you, kicking and screaming, into the world.
And then, after all that effort, guess what? The stars find your ma’s womb is literally impregnable. They can’t do what your horny old dad was able to do even after a feed of pints. Instead, they have to hang around – perhaps sipping coffee in the canteen or having a smoke outside - until you’re ready to pop your head out, at which point the cosmic rays come rushing back into the room and the astrologers leap into action like so many demented tally-men conducting an exit poll.
Bogus Horseshit
Nope, it didn’t take the Danes to tell us that this is all bogus horseshit – but I’m glad they did. And I hope now that the real powers that be will take the necessary action. By banning astrologers, psychics, spiritual healers and all other quacks and charlatans who take money off vulnerable people under false pretences.
But, of course, they won’t. While the Mad Mullah is planning to shut down our excellent casinos, the lucrative pseudo-scientific rip-off of the gullible will continue indefinitely – and that’s one prediction you can rely on.
Your ever lovin’ Samuel J. Snort Esq