|Fuck off I'm pondering|
King Flaxen of the Saxon Tiptons has magnanimously decided to dispense his prodigious wisdom from the lofty perspective of his Great Throne in the Great Hall. Justice will be freely dispensed through the medium of Flaxen's double headed Danish war axe, 'Twat Cruncher' or his sword, 'Arse, Big Fat Arse Biter'.
Please feel free to submit your problems for adjudication and sound deliberation, unless of course Flaxen is drunk then justice will proffered according to whim.
Dear King Flaxen,
My boss is always asking me to work late. Whenever I produce a presentation he always passes it off as his own work to the CEO. I feel undervalued, disregarded and totally abused. How can I handle this problem so I receive credit for my hard work without upsetting my boss who could sack me in an instant.
Bewildered of Bilsley
King Flaxen pronounceth,
I advise a measured response. Request a private meeting with your boss and take the opportunity to reasonably outline your predicament. Whilst he is deliberating, engage him thusly with a novelty impression of Arthur 'no legs' Askey. This will undoubtedly distract him mightily and cause him to pause. Exploit the hiatus in proceedings and thrust your sword (which, until this point, was cunningly concealed in a fold in your scrotum) betwixt his short ribs. Once he has expired, place him prone, remove his lungs and place them tastefully on the torso until they resemble the wings of the 'blood eagle'. Once satiated, burn the body and dedicate to Woden.
Next week King Flaxen will tackle the vexed dilemma of choosing the right moisturiser to complement your delicate skin tone. Arrrrrrrse........