Astrology. It's Not Written In The Stars!

Astrology, as practised by millions of otherwise sensible humans, is the ancient and noble art of claiming that your entire personality, destiny, and likelihood of accidentally microwaving a fork can be explained by the position of Jupiter when you were born. 

This is despite the fact that Jupiter, according to astronomers and several annoyed science teachers, is roughly the size of a small housing estate and located somewhere near outer outer space, where it spends most of its time minding its own business and not giving a toss about your career in marketing.Now, before the astrologically inclined start sending me strongly worded emails written in glitter pen, let me clarify: I am not attacking the people who read horoscopes. I am attacking the horoscopes themselves, which are written by individuals who, I suspect, have access to a large dartboard labelled “Love Life”, “Financial Ruin”, and “Unexpected Parcel Delivery”. 

These are the same individuals who insist that Mercury is constantly in something called retrograde, which, as far as I can tell, is astrology’s version of “the dog ate my homework”. If your train is late, your phone dies, or your cat suddenly develops opinions about interior design, it’s because Mercury has decided to moonwalk across the heavens again.Take the classic horoscope structure. It always begins with a sweeping statement like: “As a Capricorn, you are strong, determined, and prone to buying biscuits in bulk.” This is followed by a prediction so vague it could apply to anyone from a medieval monk to a man attempting to assemble flat‑pack furniture without crying. “Today you may face a challenge, but perseverance will bring reward.” Yes, thank you, Mystic Brenda, but that also describes every attempt I’ve ever made to open a jar of pickles.

And don’t get me started on star signs. According to astrologers, the entire human race can be divided into twelve categories, which is fewer categories than you get on a packet of crisps. You’re telling me that billions of people, across centuries, cultures, and wildly different levels of emotional maturity, can all be neatly sorted into boxes like Leo, “the dramatic one”, or Virgo, “the tidy one”. If this were true, every office in Britain would contain exactly one Virgo who knows where the stapler is, and eleven other people who keep borrowing it and never returning it.But the real magic of astrology is how people use it to justify absolutely anything. I once heard someone say, “I’m not being rude, I’m just a Scorpio.” No, Karen, you’re being rude because you’ve just elbowed a pensioner out of the way to reach the reduced‑price doughnuts.

Meanwhile, another friend insists that her inability to parallel park is due to “a clash between her rising sign and the moon”. I would argue it’s due to her inability to turn the wheel at the correct time, but apparently that’s “negative energy”.Astrology also claims to predict compatibility. According to the charts, some signs are destined to be soulmates, while others should avoid each other like a dodgy kebab. This is why you occasionally overhear conversations like: “I can’t date him, he’s a Sagittarius.” As if the poor man has confessed to being a part‑time arsonist. Meanwhile, actual compatibility shared values, mutual respect, and the ability to tolerate each other’s chewing noises is treated as a minor detail.

And yet, despite all this, astrology remains wildly popular. Why? Because deep down, we all want the universe to care. We want the cosmos to look down upon us and say, “Yes, Jim, you should buy that new jacket. Mars approves.” It’s comforting. It’s whimsical. It’s a cosmic security blanket knitted from nonsense and hope.But let’s be honest: the universe is 13.8 billion years old, unimaginably vast, and expanding at a speed that would make a Formula One driver weep. It is not rearranging itself so that you can have a “good hair day”.

Astrology. It’s not written in the stars. It’s written by someone in a cardigan, sipping herbal tea, and guessing.