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    Go Back  The Sublime Irritations of February 2005  Go Forward
    Gadzooks, my little fish-faced trollops! Last time, you were in the midst of a monumental struggle to save the Maid of Orleans (Joan of Arc) from the wicked cardinal, this by virtue of your role as Dolphin of France. You became the Dolphin after you were sent back to mediaeval times by a vision of the Virgin at Lourdes. Once there however, you found yourself all at sea with stratagems, fops, clocks that haven't been invented and missing coloured balls, as well as Joan of Arc. Par for the course, with your life!

    This may all yet prove to be a peculiar flashback that has come as a consequence of the drugs your sign is legend for ingesting. Still, in an effort to keep on the subject, we continue. In order to save the Maid, you agreed to the employ of the dark arts as practiced by an elderly female whose name you don't know. She, in her turn, agreed to ensorcel the cardinal into believing himself to be a sea creature. This would be done in return for a favour not yet specified, though you did place the dolphin seal upon her person in what may be regarded as a time honoured ceremony of the French ruling classes.

    Now, at the risk of your sanity and a permanent breach in my boredom threshold, I will endeavour to ascertain if this egregious piffle has an outcome. Stand fast, little flatulent fishes! I open wide the creaking door and release the hounds of vile and bitter prognostication that are set to run you to earth in fearful February.

    Nasty planets gather in the gloom of idiot Aquarius and your solar twelfth house as the hag begins to cast her odious spells. At the same time, you wander the confines of the palace, fearful, confused and wondering if your life is always going to be like this, no matter the century in which you find yourself. Only the laughter of the idiot gods comes in answer to this question. You stop outside the very door where sorcerous deeds are at work, fascinated by the eldritch tones that issue from within. Marauding Mars battles his way into Capricorn and your solar eleventh house, in traditional unmannerly fashion, and you decide to burst into the room and see this magic for yourself, for Mars has filled you with fire.

    The New Moon comes in awful Aquarius and there stands the hag, naked (eek) before a burning brazier. Above the brazier floats a gaseous, demonic form (aargh), also naked (egad) but somewhat comely in appearance (hmm). 'Stand back!' cries the hag. 'This is a denizen of the lower hells and a child of Asmodeus himself!'

    But what's this? Ghastly planets fart in the cosmic winds as marauding Mars frolics with Uranus, the idiot god. All at once you're filled with daring and panache! Mischievous Mercury enters your sign, my desolate abominations! No one will say you 'nay'! Are you not the Dolphin of France? You have entered the room of magic. Now you abandon hope. You sweep the hag aside, scattering herbs and coloured chalks across the pentacle she has drawn. She shrieks with fear and moans of danger to the spirit but you laugh at such danger in the manner of one touched by Mars. Idiotically that is, with no true realization of the risk!

    The great Sol Invicti enters your sign and you seize this demonic creature of smoke and inhale him (her/it) in a single breath as though you were at a party in the Sixties. O great gods alive and dead, this is too awful to be true! Cranky Chiron now enters idiot Aquarius and you decide that with this signal act, you have become a mighty sorcerer and will sweep the cardinal and decadent liturgy and foppery from the court of France. You have infernal power within you!

    But are you 'sorcerer' or are you possessed by a demon, the child of Asmodeus? Gods, it's so exciting! I'll have to rest now. Medic, bring my kit! Do come back next month and see if this drivel has anything other than a grim and terrible future, one that will mean more suffering for you and more irritation for me. Ta! Ta!

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