CRACKING THE KNACK OF THE ZODIAC

By some bizarre cosmic alignment - exactly the type of thing astrologers try and tell us we should be concerned about to attempt to justfify their everso tenous role in society and grip on reality - I've found myself off work for the past number of days. So it's been ample time to do all those little things that I haven't had a chance to do, except for the fact that I still haven't got around to doing them, spending too much time shopping and drinking. Time, for me, is like sex; When you don't have it you miss it, and when you get it it usually costs money.

But I haven't been too bad with my cash; I had a quiet enough Saturday, I went out to visit Jo and her baby daughter; she's a spritely young thing that has a fascination with my nose and standing on my groin. And the baby's not much better either. Jo inflicted some god-awful film called Watermelon on me, which was on Sky Movies that night. Honestly we send satellites into space to beam back our worst mind-warping shite; I'd have felt better if the Death Star had had it's beam trained on us. You can see I wasn't a fan. The film was so middle of the road it was a danger to traffic, and the plot so thin that Dr. Atkins is using it as a case study. And despite the promising title, Anna Friel didn't flash her "watermelons" half enough. What is a man to do?

I went home and read the paper, to try and rescue my chick-flick-addled brain. Glancing at the Horoscopes, "You will see a shit film" it read, "it will cause you to write an over-emotional gripe on your web-log." Maybe there was something in this astrology thing after all. Or maybe, and I think that this is a bit more likely, I have too much time on my hands and it's manifesting itself in late night newspaper-reading hallucinations. Who needs drugs? Just watch adaptations of Marian Keyes Novels, it will create the same effect. There - there's a horoscope for you. Fergus Gibson eat your bollocks off.