Tho' costumes change
My words
Do generations yet enthrall.


Sincerely,

SOMETHING FISHY IN DENMARK

This illustrates the problem with today's theatre-goers.

S'trooth. In my day, one could never have enough seafood stuck to the bottom of the playhouse seats. Ah... the smell of fish and plankton and proteins from the sea.

(Oysters and mead for the contestant who identifies the italicized reference.)

BLASPHEMY 101

You can say what you like. Just don't step on God's blue suede shoes.

Blasphemy my ass. If your gods and disciples and prophets and nutbag religious cretins weren't such total pricks, they'd be able to withstand a bit of fucking criticism. (Cue the blasphemous cartoons.)

What next? No more priest jokes?

Guinness, please. (And you better make it to go.)

Just started reading 'A Great and Terrible King' by Marc Morris.
It's about the life of Edward I, also known as 'Longshanks' (aka 'The Hammer of the Scots'.)
At the moment, Edward is sixteen. He's been married a year already. His wife, Eleanor, is fourteen. She's already had a miscarriage.
(Oh, yeah: these wild and crazy kids are giving Edward's old man, Henry lll, plenty of grief. Which is cool. Because Henry lll was a bit of a pill. The 'Mr. Dithers' of his time.)
Yeah, and it's got Simon de Montfort; a bunch of crazy-ass Welshmen; lots of knights and shit; plots, castles, tournaments, the Knights Templar and plenty of shenanigans.
Can't wait to get to the 'Braveheart' stuff.

Yup. Gonna be a good read.

Crazy damn Plantagenets, eh?

I have been watching the situation in Persia -- er, Iran. And I must say it reminds me a bit of my time. My Queen, after all, was head of the Church... thanks in no small measure to her father's pecker. (I'm certain there's a joke in there, somewhere.) Just as the Persian (oops, again, my bad) imams, or ayatollahs -- or whatever the fuck they're called -- are head of their country. Church and State twined and twinned.

The difference, of course, is that in my day the Monarch granted beheading only to the elite. In Iran, it is performed willy-nilly on anyone who gets up the nose of the Supreme Leader.

I mean, really.

PLUMBING THROUGH THE AGES

When I was young, we amused ourselves by preparing boys for combat; getting drunk; fucking damned near anything that moved; developing devices of torture; raising private armies; killing poachers; and of course, writing delicate verse.

Aside from electricity, keyboards, software and powerful handguns, things are pretty much the same these days. (However, I will admit that the modern flush toilet is an improvement on the palace garderobe. Picture below.)


Right. I know what you're thinking. Chamber pots.

Yes. We had them.

We also had guys who would wipe the King's bum. (see: Groom of the Stool.)

Now, regarding that last position, there must be a contemporary name or two which springs to mind....

Anyone? Bueller?

ONE REQUIRES A LARGE PURSE OF MONIES THESE DAYS

Mead.

Drank it by the barrel when I was alive. These days, I never touch the stuff. At upwards of fifty bucks for a carton of four measly cans, I must say that you modern types show an incredible disdain for history.

What's next? A ten thousand dollar codpiece? (Well, yes, I suppose I did spend a bob or two to wow the ladies... but there WAS a limit, after all.)

FRANKLY, I MISS THE PLANTAGENETS

Our fascination with the Tudors continues. David Starkey, who probably knows as much about Henry Vlll as the long dead monarch knew about himself, is the curator of a new exhibition on all things Henry. What is behind this continuing appeal? Why do we want to go there? What's with the Tudor fetish?

Simple, really. There were dungeons and Towers and political intrigue; shenanigans, syphilis and sliced off heads; plots and Armadas and dysfunction galore; a virgin and Essex and Burghley and more; Shakespeare and Bacon... and Oxford, m'Lord.

Barump-bump.

FRIDAY'S QUESTION:

But Hold! What sweet fuck, precisely, should citizens of this staling ball of mud -- at the present bloody moment -- actually give?


Interpret this how ye like.

The best responses shall be cobbled together in Oxenforde's proposed Modern Bitch-Rant Collexion, edited, annotated and illustrated by Phineas Boogaloo.


Please note: members of the Stratfordian Society of Pricks need not enter. (There be enough delusion already, everywhere.)