Horoscopes: Tightrope walking, tornadoes and Frankenstein

Aries (Mar 21 – Apr 19)

The term ‘Office Romance’ is redefined when a janitor discovers you having sex with a photocopier. A perfect storm of paper jam and simultaneous penis jam scuppers your plan for a quick getaway. Though collaterally-damaged pubes (shorn by the fire brigade’s angle grinding equipment) regrow in weeks, slower to recover is your esteem among colleagues.

Taurus (Apr 20 – May 20)

A piano fallen from an overhead crane lands squarely on your skull this weekend, killing you instantly and wounding a nearby pigeon. A BBC4 documentary entitled ‘On a Wing and a Prayer’ charts the pigeon’s recovery in a veterinary hospital just outside Suffolk.

Gemini (May 21 – Jun 21)

Honesty is always the best policy. Your casual white lie about ownership of a sandwich snowballs, resulting in the deaths of millions. Adding insult to injury, the sandwich is dry and lettucey.

Cancer (Jun 22 – Jul 22)

Your attempt to tightrope walk between the roofs of the Petronas Towers passes off without a hitch. Unfortunately, the Malaysian legal system takes a poor view on public displays of tightrope walking. A maximum fine of 200 Malaysian Ringgits (approx. 40 euro) is imposed, along with a beheading.

Leo (Jul 23 – Aug 22)

An unseasonal, flash tornado ravages your house in seconds this week. Carrying your dead wife from the rubble, you fall to your knees and curse the gods. Piqued by your blaspheming, the gods send an even bigger tornado back for your kids.

Virgo (Aug 23 – Sep 22)

You have a terrific sense of humour, which you’ll need when a clown kidnaps you later this week and chains you in his basement. Though his nightly performances are amusing for the first couple of weeks, twenty-six years of the same tired jokes eventually wear thin.

Libra (Sep 23 – Oct 23)

Love is in the air this week. So too is Anthrax. You’ll taste both, but only be killed by one.

Scorpio (Oct 24 – Nov 21)

Spectral ghosts from the past, present and future visit this weekend. Your initial suspicion that they intend steering you back unto the path of righteousness quickly dissolves when they hold you down and bugger you to within an inch of your life.

Sagittarius (Nov 22 – Dec 21)

Though your work as a geneticist is praiseworthy, your attempt to reintroduce the T-Rex into Ireland backfires when you become the first T-Rex fatality in 65 million years. Reflecting on your death, naturalists describe your Steve Irwin approach of poking and prodding the adult Rexes as having been ‘a ticking time bomb’.

Capricorn (Dec 22 – Jan 19)

Your dream of playing snooker professionally suffers another setback this week when both your arms are amputated. The media initially commends your bravery in relearning to play with your feet, but when Ronnie O’Sullivan crushes you 19 frames to 0 in a charity exhibition match for amputees, reviews of your performance are scathing.

Aquarius (Jan 20 – Feb 18)

A mysterious stranger beats lumps out of you this weekend, in a case of mistaken identity. When a second stranger beats lumps out of you a few days later, you decide to locate the person you are repeatedly being misidentified as. Unfortunately, having tracked him down, he deals you a beating so severe it makes the previous two seem mild by comparison.

Pisces (Feb 19 – Mar 20)

Your temper flares this week, when you learn that you are a patchwork of stolen corpses, reanimated by a mad scientist harnessing the lightening of a violent storm. A petulant, ill-advised rampage through a nearby village only alienates the locals, ending your resurgent life in a flurry of pitch-forking.

Readers' Mailbag: David Hasselhoff, Ballroom Dancing and Predator

Bonjour Flann,

Je déteste David Hasselhoff. S’il vous plaît l’assassiner. Je vais donc avoir des relations sexuelles avec vous,

Au revoir,

Vanessa. Ne hassle le Hoff.

Your achievements in Ballroom Dancing have never been surpassed. Why did you retire from dancing in 1984?


Too violent Jim. Newfangled programs like Strictly Come Dancing and Dancing With the Stars portray ballroom dancing as mannerly and genteel, but it was practically a blood sport in the early 80s. At least two competitors died in every World Championship final between 1979 and 1984. For me, the last straw came when my own partner shot me in the head — for no reason — in the final throes of a particularly passionate rumba. How she stashed a shotgun in that tiny costume, still mystifies me.

A few years ago, the papers were reporting that you’d be dead in 6 months without a heart, liver, double-kidney and lung transplant, and that your chronic alcoholism disqualified you from donor waiting lists. I don’t get it. How come you’re still alive?


Don’t want to say too much Joan. Suffice to say over two thousand people are reported missing every single year in Ireland. Most turn up within twenty-four hours of their reported disappearance. Some never turn up though, please God.

Apparitions at Knock are in the news again. Didn’t you once claim Our Lady appeared to you?


Yes, but she looked as surprised to see me as I was to see her. She was mid-yawn, and I was mid-piss. The whole encounter was drenched in awkwardness. She muttered some off-the-cuff divine instruction about not coveting my neighbour’s ox, and disappeared. Moments later she re-materialised, looking even more embarrassed than before. If I recall, she shouted something along the lines of, “Oh…for fuck’s sake, GABRIEL, THE THING IS PLAYING UP AGAIN. TURN IT OFF. JUST TURN THE FUCKING THING OFF…sorry about this,” and then disappeared again.

In an interview with The Guardian, your daughter Flannella recently accused you of “slitting the throat” of her childhood. What did she mean?


It’s pretty straightforward. I noticed quite early that she was genetically stocky, so I had her ‘baby fighting’ for money from the age of three. Baby fighting is similar in concept to ‘cock fighting’, but twice as lucrative and (at least) three times as immoral. In both hindsight and foresight, the violence was scarring. In my defence, I needed the money. My cocaine addiction was accelerating, and it wasn’t long before Flannella was fighting three or four times a day just to keep me in powder. As strange as it sounds, I miss those days with my daughter. Because I loved coke.

I’m begging you. Stay away from my wife. Please man, don’t break up our family,


Sorry Vincent. The heart wants what the heart wants. And the heart wants a blow-job.

My mate says you played the predator in the film Predator. Bullshit?


No, it’s true Donald. Also, the climactic fight between myself and Arnold Schwarzenegger was unscripted. The screenplay actually dictated that the predator and Arnold fall in love, and share a passionate upside-down kiss, ala Spiderman. Neither myself nor Arnie were comfortable with it, so we ad-libbed and beat several shades of shit out of each other instead. Thankfully, the director liked the footage. Just as well, because I don’t think the world was ready for inter-world homo-eroticism in the 80s.

Old Rants

Rant by www.rant.ie is licensed under a Creative Commons License. Copyright © 2009 Flann O'Coonassa