Saturday, 22 February 2014

A Day Trip to Dudley

This is a picy of Dudley town centre. If you think this was taken after we had sacked the place then you would be wrong. Careful viewers will notice that we are just entering the city gates. Dudley always looks like this. I blame poor town planning and a lack of civic responsibility among its denizens. In fact on this occasion me and lads couldn’t actually bring ourselves to do any actual pillaging. Both my mighty swords, the shiny one and the pink one remained fully sheathed and impotent. I cleaned up some of the skulls which had overflowed into a kiddies park area. Yorick’s bonce was nowhere to be found. Alas, I didn’t know him.  Harold 'The Herald’ was on carrion duty and sat on a park bench feeding the vultures. Athelstan ‘The Unsteady’, was molested by a wandering troop of scout masters. Cnut, as usual was a sweating and still unable to spell his name correctly. Erik ‘The Eunuch’ kept bragging about his prowess in the bedroom. This is not as farfetched as it sounds as Erik, these days, is well known to sport a strap on. At the end of the day we retired to the local tavern, ‘The Felching Friar.’ I met the Friar on one occasion. This turbulent Priest suffered severely from halitosis, can’t think why. My advice: Never accept a straw from this man. We all got absolutely shit faced on mead and crème de menthe. Note to self: In future crème de menthe should be a daintily sipped from a small glass and not quaffed mightily from a quart flagon.    


  1. To be honest, it looks exactly like the Abbey Garden in Bury St Edmunds before they plant it out for 'Bury in Bloom'

  2. Shit, if that be the case then Bury St Edmunds is on the list for a burning and a looting. But to be honest this reiver has a soft spot for pretty flowers. Yes, murdering barbarians are complex, quirky, and full of whims. Arse.

  3. Flaxen, you're full of shite. Reiver? My arse! Yins and yer lads are nowt but a wrist(1) of wankers on a Braw Lad's Day jape looking for a trickling brook to ford.

    "....Yorick’s bonce was nowhere to be found. Alas, I didn't know him......"

    Okay, this is a fucking shite Shakespeare reference! Branagh is spinning in his grave and he isn't even dead yet.

    ".......Note to self: In future crème de menthe should be a daintily sipped from a small glass and not quaffed mightily from a quart flagon......."
    "........this reiver has a soft spot for pretty flowers....."

    Crème de menthe? Pretty flowers?
    Fucking fruit!

    (1) Some cunt asked me to neologise a collective noun for wankers. How's this?

    1. Okay, I'm complex. After a hard day of rape and pillage I like nothing better than a hot scented bath bestrewn with rose petals. Once dressed, I mercilessly roger the nearest serving wench before retiring to a light supper of pheasant, roast duck and capons. Tis a hard life being a Dark Age barbarian, but one copes the best one can.

  4. Complex you call it?
    Not the word I would have chosen, but, heh, your blog. I can't delete you for your own good!