As a new feature on Dave Paul’s Place, I will be be publishing pieces of my daily horoscope as predicted by London Lite’s resident astrologer, Shelley Von Strunckel - a bizarre looking woman who resembles a heavily made-up Patrick Stewart wearing Joan Collins’s wig.
It’s not that her prediction are just wide of the mark, or that they have less relevance to my life than the back catalogue of Britney Spears*, it’s just that they seem to be the comments of a nutcase off her tits on a mixture of vodka, hormones and cottage cheese.
Here are some of my favourites.
When others have been foxed by a tricky problem, you’re the one they usually come to. While it’s true that you’re both better informed and more analytical than almost anybody else, you will need to ensure that certain information is reliable, or risk being found out, and very publicly.
Little is more annoying than when nobody takes responsibility and no decisions are being made. Tempting as it is to plunge in and organise things, you would come to regret it. The pace of change is about to speed up, and will soon be so swift that nothing you plan would last.
And my personal favourite:
Of all the signs, you have the greatest need to dot every ‘i’ and cross every ‘t’. But in this week of shock developments and often unsettling surprises you will need to be prepared to accept the changes that appear suddenly and result in the kind of chaos you have no choice but to live with.
London Lite is one of London’s free newspapers and is forced into my face on a daily basis by over-enthusiastic immigrant distributors. Originally I would politely decline the newspaper, now as the weeks have passed by, I just shake my head at them in an irritated fashion. I expect in 6 months time I’ll probably be giving them a swift smack and a kick as I ignore the quality daily which on one occasion headlined an article about a tribute paid to the victim of knife attack as “Headmaster pays tribute to stab boy”.
This is the only job in the world I would like 16 year olds to do. They’d stand there half-arsed just occasionally exerting themselves to hold out a paper to a passer-by, but generally wouldn’t give a shit. They’d be perfect!
If only somehow we could swap every newspaper distributor with every member of WHSmith staff in the world, then we could walk the streets of London without getting a paper thrust in your face and you could go into WHSmith and actually get some f****** service.
*Although there was that occasion when I hit that baby, and the time that I accidentally did it again.