The Isle of Pines, New Caledonia is a stunningly beautiful tropical island paradise. Turquoise waters scintillate under an azure dome. We disembarked just after brunch on Thunnorsday and were immediately met by the swart locals bearing coconuts and garlands made from the local flora. In their wake followed a sallow faced, ill-favoured Westerner. He introduced himself as the Frankish missionary hereabouts. Bugger, the wretched Franks had beaten us to it! He said that bloody Saxon reavers were not welcome here. Our violent uncouth manners and Saxon nihilism would only corrupt this most simple of people. I explained that I had not come here to corrupt but to pillage and burn. I reassured Leofric (for it is he) that the simple folk who survived would remain completely untouched by culture, Saxon or otherwise. He seemed not reassured at all. I asked how many of his kinsmen were present on the island. It transpired that poor Leofric was alone amongst these unschooled savages and he, alone, was promulgating the good news about the Christ child. He had inculcated the notion of meekness and the importance of loving thine enemy. These concepts, I thought, were admirable especially if they were truly adhered to, by my foe. Leofric asked if I had heard of the Christ and whether I would like to benefit from eternal life sitting next to Jesus and the Lord god. I asked whether there would be feasting, wenching, fighting and mead in heaven. No, apparently joy would be obtained as the sole consequence of being in close proximity to Jehovah, who also happened to be Christ. Go tell it to the Jutes I averred. At this stage I became wearisome of his blather and decided to split him atwain with my trusty double headed Danish war axe, ‘Twat Cruncher.’ Go hence and relate to Jehovah that Flaxen, of the Tipton Saxons, has sent you ahead of your allotted span for being a sanctimonious cunt. Oh, me and the lads did chortle.
As we left the island we were gratified to note, that indeed, the island had exceeded our expectations as a suitable source of combustion. The whole vista was alight and flames danced and frolicked wildly amongst the pines. I noticed a beaded tear stroll amiably down Harold ‘The Heralds’ florid cheeks. ‘What ails thee Herald? Are you awed by this scene of wanton and senseless conflagration?’ ‘No’ croaked, Harold. I’m sorely blighted by haemorrhoids and these Jutish breeches doth chafe and abrade somewhat awful. Arse, big sore arse.'