|The Welsh have never liked us|
Every year, at high summer, we have a fair on Tipton field. Folk from nine kingdoms come to mingle, swap stories and bodily fluids. This year we had a contingent of wretched screiling Welshmen. Short, dark and beetle browed, they are ill put together folk and given to much brooding.
So this year, with my wife Edith 'Swan neck' on my one arm and my beloved mistress Brynhildr on the other, I did indeed cut a dash. The contrast between the women could not be more pronounced. Lithe Edith. Graceful and slender of form. Red scintillating hair cut neat to her long, pale, neck and eyes of amber green. Small, pert, breasts lingering on a taut frame. Brynhildr, of the golden tresses, cascading over full voluptuous breasts. A full figured woman with haunting purple orbs....... I digress. Stalls selling sweet meats and mead abounded. I took my hand to knocking the leper's heads clean orf with wooden balls. I managed four with six throws. In truth, one of the heads did linger by a strip of fetid sinew. But a quick flick with my trusty Dane axe 'Twat Cruncher' did dispel any doubts that the head would not roll. The stall owner did not think this should count and thereby tried to deny my right to a cuddly toy, so I killed him. Edith had the stuffed bear and Brynhildr sported a stunned badger.
Toward the end of the evening we all became befuddled with drink. A scuffle broke out in the crowd. A Welshman suspended his brooding and began berating Loki concerning the appropriation of some Celtic land by his war band. I would liked to have said that we reasoned with him. But as we were all very drunk it was thought more expeditious to stab the Welshmen in the throat. Thus verbal dissension was curtailed. Afterward we tossed their bodies until the midden pit. And my wolf, Eingar, made much sport with their trailing entrails- O, we did laugh so.
And so the day did come to an end, on a happy note.
The next Mrs Saxon, perhaps?