Saturday, 7 February 2009
The King Is Dead, Long Live The Squire – A Regal Romp (Part The Fourth)
Part The Fourth – We'll Keep A Welcome
"We're The Welsh Liberation Front, isn't it?" said the shortish, wide-ish, coal-smeared fizzog peering at my blinking face as the burlap sack was removed from my head. At least I assume that's what it said, hard to tell with these foreign johnnies.
"Unhand your king at once, you miserable curs, or I shall have you hung, drawn, quartered, eighthed, sixteenth and then jumped up and down on a bit," I bellowed in my most majestic fashion. I have to confess that I'd picked up the kingly lingo very quickly and had taken to lording it about a bit rather like a corpulent child takes to the eating of cakes.
"Well, you see, that's the problem there, isn't it? We don't recognise your authority, alright but. You're English and we're Welsh, isn't it?" claimed the reduced revolutionary.
I could see from the manic glint of fanaticism in his eyes that distraction with items of a shiny and glinting nature was unlikely to have any effect. This was an altogether different class of Welshy. It called for far subtler tactics. These were a hardier breed living the lonely life of the dedicated maniacal patriot.
"Look, an attractive and single young sheep!" I cried and, as they fought each other for the first crack at the supposed ovine, I made my break for it. Unfortunately, they were a wily bunch and my attempted flight into freedom was soon arrested.
"You don't want to be trying that again, boyo. We're hardened men, cut you soon as look at you, isn't it?"
"What do you want with me?" I demanded. Well, maybe demanded is a rather strong way of putting it. At this point, there may have been more than a slight tremble in your humble narrator's voice. I was beginning to fear that not only were my days of wine and roses numbered but my days of respiration in general were not so long as I would once .
"We're gonna demand that Wales just be for the Welsh and, if we don't have our own king within a week, we'll start removing bits of the current one and sending them back individually," claimed he. "Erm, isn't it?" he added, realising that he'd nearly forgotten to fulfil his contractual stereotypical obligations.
This I did not like the sound of. I'm rather attached to all of my bits and have been for some considerable time. If they were to be removed, I'd be somewhat on the upset side, I have to admit.
They advanced upon me menacingly. I could tell by the leers upon their little stout faces that this was to be no picnic...
To Be Lengthened