This was taken on the beach just outside Dunkirk. In truth, I wasn't really on holiday as we’d just sacked and burnt the town to the ground. Pillaging and rapine is not the giggle it used to be. I swear these town’s people are catching on to us murdering reivers and moving all their valuables together with their fairest maidens out of town. I ask, is that sporting of them, or what? Imagine my chagrin when I was accosted by some petty civil servant upon entering the gates. He had the temerity to ask if I had a ‘permit of entry’. Where is the civility in that? I explained, with some justification, that my double headed, Danish, war axe, 'Twat Cruncher' was my permit to do exactly what I liked. But it is no good arguing with ‘jobs worth’ niggling officials, so I lopped off his ill-favoured bonce, thus lightening his bureaucratic load. Oh, we did laugh! It now has pride of place on the great wall of the great hall and serves the practical need of keeping the flies off the wattle and daub. Any ichor that draineth and drippeth is promptly lapped up by my faithful wolf, Eingar. ‘Good boy, Eingar.’
And before you ask, I'm the pretty boy in the full faced helm.