Greensleeves ad infinitum

The tubby ginger one played greensleeves last night until the early hours of the morning. It was only when all the candles had burned down to their bases and no more could be found (I'd taken the liberty of hiding the fresh batch of tallow in the armoury - for which one of the serving boys took a sound beating) that he relented and let the court retire. If I hear that bloody song one more time I swear I will be forced into regicide but no, the sycophantic Earls and Barons call for encore after encore as if they desire nothing more. I can only envy future generations who by the very nature of history and time passing will not have to endure the endless torture of that tune played over and over again.

The ear of a king...

Not mine you idiot ... do I look like a king to you? Am I a corpulent ginger tosser with a libido the size of shire horse and an attention span shorter than a Belgian dwarf with no legs? No. But I do have the King's ear where it matters. Who was it who told him to send that letter to the Pope letting him know that he was cancelling his direct debit to the vatican coffers because he was setting up his own church? One of my better ones that.

That's him hollering now. No doubt one of the scullery maids has given him something unexpected and he wants me to look at the royal member and advise him how to rid himself of some pox or other. Now where did I leave those gloves?