By god's holy rood, my beefsteak beauties, Heavens forfend I should trouble your taciturn disposition and platitudinous mentations with gruesome visions of dark futures, but that's exactly what I've come to do! It's vile and bitters time, and I am just the grand prognosticator to deliver the cup into your hands, ensuring that you then drink deep of the swirling poison within. With no further ado, we'll get down to the desperate business!
Gadzooks, it's grim as callous cosmic influences turn the screws in the chamber of horrors ruled by the insane gods, a barren waste of tears and vanity, known colloquially as Earth. Dark Pluto, lord of the underworld, disporting his callous proclivities in gloomy Capricorn, launches savage assail against the person of ghastly Saturn in loathsome Libra and your house of work (eek) and health (ugh). Thus do burdens gather at your fevered brow, hammering like an army of demons! Legal matters, publishers, overseas communication and studious or scrupulous types whose polite mask conceals an angry or vindictive nature will make nasty affray in daily life, leaving you weak and confused, feeling there is no way out nor way forward. All aspiration turned to dust and all passion spent (as well as the money). Driven desperate and left bereft, even appeals to a higher authority, such as god, your mother or the makers of fine chocolate cut no ice in the grip of this cosmic vice.
By my sainted aunt, what's this? It's dastardly December and the psychopathic war god, Mars slams into reverse, beginning to travel backwards in lackwit Leo. Now, here's a pretty pickle, my tiny boofheads! Instanter, you take umbrage with the furniture, railing against its ostentation and gaudiness, qualities achieved at the cost of any comfort, leaving your home more akin to torture chamber than sanctuary.
Oh galoshes, what will you do, my future leather jackets? Out come implements, blunt and sharp, and you set yourself for revenge on the wing chair that has left you with a wonky walk, the chaise longue that has crippled you and the Iron Maiden, posing as a bed that has stolen your sleep. But, blow me down, my hearties, if there isn't a startling development, just as a New Year looms and the whine of the chain saw announces you're about to turn the bed to firewood and the chaise longue to footstools, darling little Mercury also fingers the reverse button in the ghastly sign of the Goat. The phone rings, causing you to withdraw (eek) the dipping blade and answer the device.
God bless your cotton socks and bovine booties, if it doesn't turn out to be Auntie and Uncle Blither-On, elderly rellies that dwell in Wittering near Peterborough. After what seems to be three years of piffle about the weather and how everyone is, it turns out the old ducks have won a handsome sum at bingo or on an outsider at the ponies and are sending you some good oil for the New Year. This turnaround puts a smile on the dial and, what ho, but jolly Jupiter, profligate lord of fortune adds to the pot by sleazing into wretched Pisces and your house of friends (shriek). Amid the insobriety of a rort staged courtesy of the fortuitous dosh, intoxication takes a possession of your usually pedestrian faculties. Cranky Chiron and narcotic Neptune nibble radically in the netherworld (erk), whilst joined in the idiot sign of Aquarius, and you decide that, instead of destroying the punishing appointments, you will laud their unpleasant attributes by turning your house into a museum of the ancient devices of torture. By such means, you can be wealthy, breaking from the chains of enslavement and control placed on your wrists and ankles by the ruthlessness of employment and employers.
In less time than it takes to snap a lock, your house is the Palace of the Punitive, displaying the Rack, Scold's Bridle, Scavenger's Daughter and, in pride of place, the Iron Maiden in whom you begin to develop a strange and perverted interest. You stage Mediaeval Dinners where the guests must use the Heretic's Fork and list to after dinner tales of Margaret the Martyr and the redoubtable Giles Corey. All goes well, apart from awful April when, with mischievous Mercury reversing in your sign, you accidentally (hmm) lock yourself in the Iron Maiden and give way to unspeakable acts of corruption in the long and lonely night.
However, as the merry month of May rolls into the Midyear, Uranus, idiot god, and jolly Jupiter, the crapulous one, surge into addlepate Aries, clashing with the slaphappy Solstice, dark Pluto and sober Saturn. Thus do devil's wheels and ropes begin turning in the ample space your skull provides, boiling the inner cauldron of stygian desire, making you a helpless servant to a dark compulsion to open the Punitive Palace as a genuine house of torture. You could offer your services to the more serious members of the public with a serious ability to pay. You could offer expressions of interest to the government, as a correctional facility that could, in time, become a global franchise.
By all that's unholy, contemptible and corrupt, this may be the most successful idea you've ever had, my churlish tweeters, or it may be the road to Hell. However, as I'm wracked by fatigue and ennui, I can speak no more for the nonce. Click here later for a further instalment of this disturbing tale. Ave!