12 - Eat, Die and Be Merry!
"Jesus be praised!"
"What is it, milord?"
"My w-wife has died!"
"Hooray!"
"Sherwyn, you are an idiot, aren't you?"
"And wh-why would that b-be, Ælaf?"
"Because, my lord, your wife has another seventeen years to live."
"Oh God... Q-Quick, someone hide the picture!"
"Don't worry, milord, for I have a cunning plan..."
"About wh-what?"
"To kill your wife."
"Oh, no. I'll be happy when she dies-"
"What was that, husband?"
"I'll be happy when she, um... Quick, Thurcytel, g-get me the rhyming d-dictionary."
"You mean the big papery thing tied up with string?"
"Yes, Th-Thurcytel, the rhyming dictionary."
"Just here, milord."
"Ah, good... Let's see... D-Dies, here we go... Um, I'll be happy wh-when she flies?"
"Hmph!"
"..."
"But I d-don't want to murder her, b-besides, seventeen years is n-nothing. It's only, what? Five years away? That's practically tomorrow!"
"I give up."
"Um, my lord, don't you want to know who did die?"
"Yes, g-go on then."
"Your daughter, my lord. Eadgyth, of pneumonia."
"Eadgyth of Pnuemonia... N-Norman?"
"Wh-? Um, no, my lord. Eadgyth died of pnuemonia."
"And Eadgyth was...?"
"Your daughter! Your bloody daughter!"
"Well, she did have pnuemonia."
"I think I need a lie down."
""-you have the w-wit and intellect of a d-donkey, and I pity the fact that you are my steward. I would hire someone else, b-but you actually happen to be a bit g-good with numbers. That and there's no one else to hire, so I'd have to do the work m-myself, and I think we all know that we'd sooner see K-King William run himself up the flagpole at the Tower of London. Actually, I hope he d-does, the traitor usurping bastard Norman thug. I remain y-your lord and master, G-Gyrth Godwinson (Stop Laughing.)" Th-Thurcytel!"
"Yes, milord?"
"We are g-going to partake in a traditional post-d-death ritual.
"And what would that be, milord?"
"We're going to a feast!"
"I still can't believe he's called Gyrth. It's no wonder he's holding a feast, milord."
"*Quiet, Thurcytel, there he is.* H-Hello, Gyrth."
"Hello, Sherwyn. Please steak a teat. Sorry, *hic* I meant state a teak *hic.* Oh, I am sorry, I fear I'm *hic* drunk already... Oh, and I'm sorry about your daughter-"
"*Why did he wink, milord?*"
"*I don't know Thrucytel, just g-go along w-with it."
"Always a shame when they leave."
"Um, thank you, my lord, b-but, she's dead."
"That good, are you?"
"*I really don't like it when he winks.*"
"*Be quiet, Thrucytel.*"
"Ah, um, h-hello... Can I s-sit here?"
"Yes, go ahead."
"..."
"So, tell me - what are your thoughts on The Great Schism?"
"..."
"..."
"Is that the thing th-that m-means that people can't get bread from the P-Pope?"
"..."
"I'm going to go and sit s-somewhere else. Thurcytel? Come on, we're moving."
"Alright, milord."
"Before I sit down, are y-you g-going to ask me about things I d-don't know?
"No, Sherwyn. It's me, Konan."
"Ah! Konan, you're the Italian b-bishop, aren't you?"
"Um, no actually, Sherwyn. I'm Breton."
"I think I'd be Breton if someone thought I was Italian."
"*Quiet Thrucytel, and besides, you can't use the same joke two weeks in a row."
"*Why not?*"
"*Because it's weak writing.*"
"*Oh, okay.* I think I'd be Italian if someone thought I was Breton."
"Um, why don't you sit down, Sherwyn?"
"G-Good idea."
"Ah, g-good, the first c-course. What do we have h-here?"
"I think they're turnips, milord."
"Turnips! Where? Q-Quick, get them away!"
"You're causing a scene, milord."
"I don't c-care! Just as long as s-someone gets those sodding t-turnips out of here b-before the oppressed m-masses turn up."
"Shouldn't that that be turn ip, milord? No? Okay."
"Oh, look, a page. G-Good. Thurcytel, ask him if he can take the bloody things out of my sight."
"Excuse me, could you please take the bloody things out of his sight?"
"You men ze knavs? Wha of curse not, zough zey weell be bloody eef zey av just been used fur ze mit."
"Oh God! A French w-waiter."
"Wha of curse! Zough A am sorry about yur daughter.-"
"*Why did he wink, milord?"
"*I don't kn-know.*"
"Eet eez always a shame when zey leave you. Zen again, eef you were French, maybe she would av stayed, non?"
"Um, non, mais oui? Actually, while y-you're here, can I radish you wiz ma Franglais?"
"Radish? Non. Zat eez ze next curse."
"Oh, le sod it."
"Jesus be praised!"
"What is it, milord?"
"My w-wife has died!"
"Hooray!"
"Sherwyn, you are an idiot, aren't you?"
"And wh-why would that b-be, Ælaf?"
"Because, my lord, your wife has another seventeen years to live."
"Oh God... Q-Quick, someone hide the picture!"
"Don't worry, milord, for I have a cunning plan..."
"About wh-what?"
"To kill your wife."
"Oh, no. I'll be happy when she dies-"
"What was that, husband?"
"I'll be happy when she, um... Quick, Thurcytel, g-get me the rhyming d-dictionary."
"You mean the big papery thing tied up with string?"
"Yes, Th-Thurcytel, the rhyming dictionary."
"Just here, milord."
"Ah, good... Let's see... D-Dies, here we go... Um, I'll be happy wh-when she flies?"
"Hmph!"
"..."
"But I d-don't want to murder her, b-besides, seventeen years is n-nothing. It's only, what? Five years away? That's practically tomorrow!"
"I give up."
"Um, my lord, don't you want to know who did die?"
"Yes, g-go on then."
"Your daughter, my lord. Eadgyth, of pneumonia."
"Eadgyth of Pnuemonia... N-Norman?"
"Wh-? Um, no, my lord. Eadgyth died of pnuemonia."
"And Eadgyth was...?"
"Your daughter! Your bloody daughter!"
"Well, she did have pnuemonia."
"I think I need a lie down."
--
""-you have the w-wit and intellect of a d-donkey, and I pity the fact that you are my steward. I would hire someone else, b-but you actually happen to be a bit g-good with numbers. That and there's no one else to hire, so I'd have to do the work m-myself, and I think we all know that we'd sooner see K-King William run himself up the flagpole at the Tower of London. Actually, I hope he d-does, the traitor usurping bastard Norman thug. I remain y-your lord and master, G-Gyrth Godwinson (Stop Laughing.)" Th-Thurcytel!"
"Yes, milord?"
"We are g-going to partake in a traditional post-d-death ritual.
"And what would that be, milord?"
"We're going to a feast!"
--
"I still can't believe he's called Gyrth. It's no wonder he's holding a feast, milord."
"*Quiet, Thurcytel, there he is.* H-Hello, Gyrth."
"Hello, Sherwyn. Please steak a teat. Sorry, *hic* I meant state a teak *hic.* Oh, I am sorry, I fear I'm *hic* drunk already... Oh, and I'm sorry about your daughter-"
"*Why did he wink, milord?*"
"*I don't know Thrucytel, just g-go along w-with it."
"Always a shame when they leave."
"Um, thank you, my lord, b-but, she's dead."
"That good, are you?"
"*I really don't like it when he winks.*"
"*Be quiet, Thrucytel.*"
"Ah, um, h-hello... Can I s-sit here?"
"Yes, go ahead."
"..."
"So, tell me - what are your thoughts on The Great Schism?"
"..."
"..."
"Is that the thing th-that m-means that people can't get bread from the P-Pope?"
"..."
"I'm going to go and sit s-somewhere else. Thurcytel? Come on, we're moving."
"Alright, milord."
--
"Before I sit down, are y-you g-going to ask me about things I d-don't know?
"No, Sherwyn. It's me, Konan."
"Ah! Konan, you're the Italian b-bishop, aren't you?"
"Um, no actually, Sherwyn. I'm Breton."
"I think I'd be Breton if someone thought I was Italian."
"*Quiet Thrucytel, and besides, you can't use the same joke two weeks in a row."
"*Why not?*"
"*Because it's weak writing.*"
"*Oh, okay.* I think I'd be Italian if someone thought I was Breton."
"Um, why don't you sit down, Sherwyn?"
"G-Good idea."
--
"Ah, g-good, the first c-course. What do we have h-here?"
"I think they're turnips, milord."
"Turnips! Where? Q-Quick, get them away!"
"You're causing a scene, milord."
"I don't c-care! Just as long as s-someone gets those sodding t-turnips out of here b-before the oppressed m-masses turn up."
"Shouldn't that that be turn ip, milord? No? Okay."
"Oh, look, a page. G-Good. Thurcytel, ask him if he can take the bloody things out of my sight."
"Excuse me, could you please take the bloody things out of his sight?"
"You men ze knavs? Wha of curse not, zough zey weell be bloody eef zey av just been used fur ze mit."
"Oh God! A French w-waiter."
"Wha of curse! Zough A am sorry about yur daughter.-"
"*Why did he wink, milord?"
"*I don't kn-know.*"
"Eet eez always a shame when zey leave you. Zen again, eef you were French, maybe she would av stayed, non?"
"Um, non, mais oui? Actually, while y-you're here, can I radish you wiz ma Franglais?"
"Radish? Non. Zat eez ze next curse."
"Oh, le sod it."
--
To he continued...
To he continued...