What ho, my odiferous ovines! Last time, the goddess Telephone answered your tearful imprecations by offering the use of a phone to Hell, allowing you to speak with gods, demons and the dead, thus enabling you to be a medium and channel of renown. Without concern for implication or consequence (your standard approach), you consented.
So, what horrors will the hellphone conjure? Let us consult the prognostications, vile and bitter though they be, for jaded June. It is by this means alone we shall discover the worst, this latter being the outcome we expect of your endeavours. Mischievous Mercury moves to neurotic Cancer and you instanter get on the hellphone to communicate with recently departed relatives. You tell them exactly what you thought of them, especially those that wouldn’t give you extra pocket money, but saving a special serve for those that put nasty squashy things down the back of your trousers then forced you to sit down. There was an older cousin in particular! We won’t go into detail, save to report that he passed painfully by falling into an industrial waste disposal mincer whilst inebriated. You take great glee reminding the shredded shade of his corporeal offences while said phantom languishes justly in the lowest of the twenty-nine hells.
Marauding Mars also enters loathsome Leo at this time and thus you bash living people to demonstrate your skill in martial arts and also try to have sex with everyone you meet to demonstrate your skill in bed. However, you are soon confused between the two activities, mixing up the demonstrations of prowess. However, as neither your victims nor your lovers can tell the difference either, it’s a thing of little consequence. As vamping Venus gropes grim Saturn and cranky Chiron, you’re broke and have no friends to speak of, other than several loose associations with weak-minded or overly medicated persons too timorous to resist your attentions. As vamping Venus lays bare her concealed portions for jolly Jupiter to ravish, you decide to put your occult wares on sale.
And what’s this? By my sainted aunt, it’s the Full Moon in nitwit Sagittarius! And it makes you the hero of the day as you offer to assist (for remuneration) those who wish to insult departed friends, lovers and relatives by means of the hellphone. As ghastly planets fart in nasty aspect, you become the Mystic of Malice. You have to petition Telephone (the goddess) to put in extra lines to cope with this malicious traffic. Everyone has a departed relative, friend or mate they hate. By my sainted aunt, that’s a fact you’ll find in any book of immutable truths! The goddess accedes to your request instantly, a response you prefer in all your dealings.
But what’s this? Great toddling toads and barking bandicoots! It’s a miracle as such, my frightful little types! As marauding Mars joins lugubrious Saturn and the mismatched pair makes unspeakable congress with cranky Chiron and jolly Jupiter, you have a bright idea.
Eek! Egad! Gadzooks! And other quaint expressions to indicate surprise and alarm. There’s no telling what will ensue from this unprecedented eructation of individual brilliance. And just what does the eructation consist of, you ask? Well, I’ll tell you. You seize on the idea that, as there are many genii condemned to hell (a common destination for the genius), great writers such as Milton, Shakespeare and Enid Blyton must be incarcerated in the eternal fires. Thus, you can talk to them on the hellphone! Shriek! Once in contact, you can badger words out of them and channel the great literary work you’ve always imagined as your destiny.
Ye gods and little fishes! How brilliant! But, great trundling tea-trolleys, what’s this? It’s an eructation in the Heavens every bit as scarifying as is yours here on earth! The great Sol Invicti slithers into neurotic Cancer, visiting another hideous Solstice on an over-burdened world. In addition, the Loony Nodes forsake the signs of Aries and Libra, stumbling into Pisces (aargh) and Virgo (ugh). Quelle horreur!
As vamping Venus disports herself in nitwit Gemini, you hire a bevy of supple persons to dance erotically, praising you in a sycophantic manner. As they do, you make a conference call on the hellphone, to speak with Shakespeare and Enid Blyton about a book you have in mind called FIVE TAKE REVENGE IN ELSINORE. It all goes well until, double shriek, you get a crossed line at the New Moon in neurotic Cancer! It’s your father, my turgid little frumps! Crossed over to the spirit world! And he wants to speak to you about your exam results! Eek!
As mischievous Mercury limps into lackwit Leo, soon to move into perverse reverse, you’re distracted from your mighty tasks, though you’ve a list of waiting clients a mile long and a masterwork to write. You begin to mutter about rosemary and rue, fennel and pansies. You fall prey to the delusion that your name may be Ophelia and that you’ve somehow lost your violets. Lost your marbles more like!
Egad, my tiny tikes. Has the hellphone sent you mad! Gibbering insane and ready to hoe a row or two on the funny farm! Click here next month and see. For the nonce, ave!