HAHAHAHA! Oh, Priceless.

Just a little off the top, eh?

Keep digging and scraping, fellas.

I bet there's a map to the Holy Grail underneath the ruff. Shakespeare was really a latter-day member of the Knights Templar, don'tcha know. Or a Mason. Or one of Dan Brown's ancestors.

HAHAHAHA.

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There be but two types of Man:

The first lays his head upon the pillow, trusting that his work hath made the world a better place for the morrow.

The second retires late into the night, hides his tools, and -- just before sleep -- congratulates himself that the world will confront itself in scant hours hence; see its image reflected once more in sea and sky; then scream and vomit anew.


As always, you are welcome.

ROYAL MYSTERIES

Another historical 'what if' has been laid to rest. The results of forensic tests have determined that every member of the Russian royal family was murdered by the Bolsheviks, including the heir to the throne, Alexei, and his sister, Anastasia. 'Twas not so long ago that some people believed one or both escaped the slaughter.

Personally, I much prefer history that has a decent slathering of doubt and mystery. Gives me something to read and ponder. And there are things we'd be better off not knowing. (I especially don't want to know anything about the actual bedroom antics of Victoria and Albert. Ewww.) Still, I wouldn't mind knowing just how many balls Hitler had in his golf bag. Inquiring minds, eh?

Hmmm... and did wicked old Richard lll really kill his little nephews? (I know, I know: I wrote a play. But you must understand that I knew fuck all for certain -- except which side of the bread contained the butter. And I thought it prudent to swear by the Tudor/Lancaster brand of butter and cheese. To the victors go the spoils. Losers have boils... or at least humps on their backs. Or wither'd legs. That sort of thing.)

Boogaloo... bring us flagons of ale.

AND SO THE SEARCH CONTINUES....

Yet another attempt to depict the likeness of the Bard.

Balderdash. Read again these words:

"In its favour, the portrait looks very similar to the only two other images of the playwright accepted as having been by people who knew Shakespeare when he was alive. These are the bust of him in Holy Trinity church, Stratford-upon-Avon, where he is buried and which was erected not long after his death; and the engraving of his image, made in 1623, at the front of his First Folio. "

Very similar? Really?

The first of the 'two images' is this cartoon-man from the Holy Trinity Church.

Can one really believe that such a ludicrous lump as this... thing wrote the Works? And does it look in any respect like the 'Janssen-cum-Cobbe' Portrait?

The second 'image' is equally vapid. It is the illustration from the First Folio -- and I urge you not to laugh aloud.



Now, if either of these renderings suggest to you a likeness to the johnny-come-lately 'Janssen', you have my sincere sympathy (and you might want the name of a good optometrist).

This night while sleeping imps do dream
'bout likeness this and that,
I give you three and then one more
That turns it all to scat.




de Vere

de Vere

de Vere.

The Poet in his working clothes

I fail to see
How you cannot see
Just what the fuck's in front of thee.

NEW DIGS, CHESS CLUB, AND CHILD PSYCHOLOGY

For centuries I wandered through mists and vapours attempting to reincarnate and live once more upon the solid earth. But this second coming required a dupe -- or should I say willing vessel -- to provide me the proper physical carcass. In addition to a bum leg (my old imperfection being a mark of pride), this extant being must of needs possess a great swath of unused cranial space. One man fit the bill: Boogaloo.

I, The late Earl of Oxford, now occupy two-thirds of this proxy poxy brain (a squeeze for me, whilst my host is still rattling about his nearly empty apartment) and I plan to annex the derelict closet space, down to the last cubic centimeter.

The downside to this arrangement is that I must rise with him and be off to work at his tiddly-wink academy -- sitting through his long-winded lectures and waiting patiently in line while he attempts to access the staff washroom. Still, I enjoy Thursdays. Because Thursday is Chess Club Day.

I like nothing better than dispatching the freckle-faced chiddlers in a dozen moves or less. My host is not fond of this approach. He would rather spend his time kibitzing and explaining his moves than going for their wee jugulars. I say: less talk, more ego shattering. Tomorrow, I shall extend my unbeaten record to six hundred matches.

Children learn more from a solid thumping than any taste of treacle.

MAN KIND

This vile container of spleen and liver, appendix, ducts
And a brain upheld by reptilian cords older than the coldest rocks --
Easily pierced by soft steel or rusty bodkins --
Hath assert'd its dominion, as per instructions, over Earth and all the beasts:
Those of the field, those that swimme,
And the rest that mock us by flight and the flapping of wings.

And now the dead, extinct and nearly so
Crie out to the black heavens,
The heavens that house the phony gamekeeper
That Man hath fondled with his tongue, and worshipp'd
In writing
And seas of blood.



Oxenforde, 2009

THESPIANISM

Tonight, the actors and creators of moving pictures celebrate themselves in an orgy of schmooze and plunging necklines. Thespians. Balderdash.

When I was working upon the boards, awards were unheard of. Indeed, the journeymen players were lucky to have even a smallish carp tossed their way. Needless to say, when such occasions arose, 'twas usually in the midst of a rather longish soliloquy.

I remember just such a night. At the Palace it was. And I, as Hamlet, was struck full in the face by a not quite moribund eel. The men of the Company got a good chuckle out of that. (Still, the writhing serpent made a decent supper for myself and the rather delicate bloke who played Ophelia. Lovely, fair-haired lad. A sweet face he had and the most... Hold! Enough!)

Ah, memories.

Why is the world aghast at this? Thirteen is the perfect age for fatherhood. Plus, our wee man Alfie will likely be a grandfather at twenty-three... assuming his daughter rides the intelligence curve and gets herself knocked up when she's ten. (That'll certainly entertain the chaps down at the old Cock and Twat every night before last call.) And finances? Hell, the offers are pouring in.

In my day, 'twas not unusual for this to happen. In fact, it was encouraged. A man could never have too many heirs.... Which means Alfie and the lovely Mrs. Alfie will doubtless be trying for a boy this year. Best of luck, my lad. I see a Knighthood in your future.

ALCHEMY AND ECONOMICS

Modern egalitarian society owes much to alchemy. Had it not been for our wild conjectures, ludicrous experiments, explosions, seepage of toxic compounds, and the constant handling, inhalation and ingestion of manipulated lead, why, I daresay that our richest practitioners and benefactors would not have produced such a long line of moronic children. Indeed, once the brain is lost, can the estates be far behind?

Sounds a bit like that sub-prime mortgage business you modern lot have been bedazzled by. (I'd check both Wall Street and Main Street for lead poisoning. And Spanish spies. Especially the Spanish bastards. I fought the cunts, don't you know?)