Listen up, ya bunch of star-crossed wankers! It’s your favorite sourpuss astrologer, Ragey McSwearington, back on the job. Missed me? I bet you did. I’ve been away for a couple of days, and you might be thinking, “Oh, Ragey must’ve had a smashing holiday, resting under a palm tree, sipping Mojitos, and sunning his pasty white arse.” You couldn’t be further from the truth, you delusional wimps!

Oh, what’s that? You want to hear about my bloody holiday? You’d like that, wouldn’t ya? Sit back then, get comfortable, ‘cause it was nothing short of a clusterfuck. Buckle up, kids, ‘cause here comes the Ragey Holiday Experience™.

I booked myself a little trip to the ‘Island of Serenity.’ Sounds delightful, right? A serene island with crystal-clear waters, golden sandy beaches, and cool, refreshing breezes. You know what I got instead? A glorified rock jutting out of a grimy, polluted sea, the ‘golden sands’ were more like hot pebbles that scorched the soles of my feet, and the ‘cool breezes’? More like gale-force winds that’d give a bloody hurricane a run for its money.

I stayed in what was advertised as a ‘luxurious bungalow.’ Well, let me tell you about that rat-infested shack. There was a distinct eau de sewage in the air, the bed was a prehistoric relic that could’ve doubled as a medieval torture device, and the plumbing was a cruel joke. I’ve seen better facilities in a prison movie.

Then there was the food. Oh, the ‘exotic’ local cuisine. I’ve had better grub from a dodgy kebab van at 3 am. My first meal? Some mystery meat drowned in a sauce so spicy it’d burn a hole in your tongue, served with what I’m sure was week-old rice. My digestive system is still rioting.

And don’t even get me started on the bloody wildlife. They advertised ‘gentle sounds of nature’ to lull you to sleep. The only sounds of nature were the incessant squawking of parrots with a vocabulary fouler than mine and the nightly rat race in the bloody walls. Add to that, the local mosquitoes had a particular liking for my blood, the little vampiric fuckers. I got back looking like I had contracted the pox.

Did I mention the service? I’ve had warmer welcomes from a rabid dog. The staff were as useful as a chocolate teapot. You ask for directions, they shrug. You order a drink, it arrives three decades later, watered down and warm. I swear, I’ve seen corpses with more enthusiasm.

And the icing on this shit cake? The only bloody bar on the island was shut down for ‘routine maintenance.’ That’s right! I was stranded on a third-world island, being eaten alive by insects, tormented by wildlife, starved and lost, and I couldn’t even drown my sorrows in cheap, cold booze.

So, there you have it. My so-called ‘holiday’ was a cosmic joke of epic proportions. Two whole days in hell. Now, you might be thinking, “Ragey, why didn’t you just come back earlier?” And to that, I say, it was an island, you utter numpties! I was stuck there until the next ferry came, which, as per my shite luck, was two days later.

Now that you know why there were no horoscopes on the 24th and 25th, let me make it clear. I didn’t abandon you for some beachside pleasure cruise. I suffered. My pain was real. So, don’t you dare give me any of your sanctimonious bollocks.

But hey, it’s good to be back in the old observatory, under a proper roof, without the threat of being eaten alive by wild creatures, and with a functioning toilet. I’m ready to serve you up some more fresh, starry-eyed wisdom. Now that I’ve vented, let’s get back to the stars, shall we? God knows, they’re the only predictable thing in this universe!

And remember, if you decide to go on holiday, check the damn reviews first!