Someone who knows about these things once told me that it is not Richard Littlejohn but Jonathan Cainer who is the highest-paid writer at the Daily Mail, earning more than a million English pounds every year for his horoscopes and a chunk of the revenue from the "Dial me up for more of this!" phonelines.
I don't know if I believe that or not, but let's assume it's true. What do you get for all that money? As a fairly typical Aries, I think horoscopes are a load of bollocks, but what does Cainer predict for me today?
I'm sure it's not just me who's thinking: "Is it Dusty Bin?"
In some ways you could see Cainer as the postmodern astrologer. It's almost as if he's saying to the reader: "Look, you know and I know, but let's go through the motions, shall we? And of course the less I put into the paper version, the more you might want to ring the premium rate phone line..."
As far as I can work out, he's just coming out with some vague attempt at pithiness with lots of questions in it to distract you from the fact there's no actual content at all. But maybe he's got me right: my desire to create something (this blog post saying that Cainer's star sign shite is woeful) doesn't have to be backed up by impeccable logic. Although the logic I'm using is this: it looks like shit, and it smells like shit, so I'm going to say it's shit.
You couldn't predict that, could you? Oh. You could.