‘More roasted songbirds,’ an Elizabethan dignitary might once have bellowed. Mauve of cheek, with honey-glazed venison protruding from his pendulous jowls, he cuts quite the powerful figurehead. But this is only the hem of the garment, so to speak.
Eels seethed in wine are brought to the table by a curtsying maid, her skin the colour of bleached parchment. As she clasps her hands unctuously, his embittered mind is dreaming of overpowering this frail creature, swooping like a Valkyrie to defile her sanctuary.
And if she opposes the union? Simple. Off with her head! You see, beneath all this glittering authority lies a craven, insecure ballbag worthy only of despisement and scorn.
No More Mr Nice Guy
And what of the incorrigibly gossipy scullery maid? An intractable, quarrelsome woman that once had the temerity to voice an opinion on the running of the household hierachy. Tut tut. Yes, an iron mouthpiece for her, permanently mutilating the tongue with sharp spikes and blades. Obviously befilth her in her own excrement, too.
Gruesome? You betcha. And do you know why this chain of events evolved? All because the royal, gout-ridden oaf had a tiny penis. My words, admittedly, not those of the San Marino Torture Museum, and not necessarily an argument you’ll find confirmed on Wikipedia – nor that his Eminence had the brain the size of a squirrel’s – but the reasoning is sound.
San Marino Cliffs
Anyway, then she’s branded “Slattern” across her forehead, given a good wheeling and chucked off Mount Titano – there are some perfect spots between the first and third towers – and all before the next flagon of mead. Ooh, but hang on, why selfishly hurl this maid into the abyss when the new trainee needs a few practise swings with the headsman’s sword.
‘A young aspirant’, reads the Museum blurb on beheading, ‘whom we must certainly forgive occasional errors of inexperience, is wont to slice off a few shoulders. But sooner or later he will earn his keep on the third try, and in good time on the first.’
Hmm, less mead at lunch, more heads first go, would be my advice here. Of course, one hopes that young aspirants are breathalysed before clocking on nowadays. Health and Safety, and all that.
Now, here’s something you probably didn’t know. A freshly severed head is, apparently, fully aware of its fate as it rolls along the ground. Granted, perception is extinguished in a matter of seconds, and it must be an appalling sensation, but I’d definitely favour a neat guillotine execution over a wally from the Job Centre hacking thrice to find the right spot.
Well, having uplifted your mood, I’ll sign off. We’ll talk about flowers or something next week..