Happy Birthday, Flaxen Saxon

This is a recent picy of Hendrick 'The Hamster.' I sometimes have recourse to integrating him into my personal body guard.  What he lacks in physical strength and stature he makes up in shear gnawing power. Don't be fooled by the cute demeanor.You don't want this rodent a nibbling on your colon, unless of course you are a famous actor who by virtue of the defamatory laws will remain nameless. Arse, big sore arse. By the way, that's no tail a protruding. Hendrick assures me that he is hung like a gerbil- say no more.

Today is Flaxen’s birthday. Fifty eight summers have beetled this brow and sowed silver in the spun gold of my hair. My prostate waxes mightily and constricts once patent and flexible tubes. A good day is a sustained erection and a lack of blood in the flow. A bad day is a sustained erection. Chaffs mightily against rough Jutish cloth. Viagra is not all it’s cracked up to be and there be no warning about priapism in the accompanying literature. This ditty was supposedly composed by son, Athelstan ‘The Unsteady.’  He lies like a flat fish, just like his dad. Good man my son.   

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Too good to waste, Dioclese got his mate ChasC to move it round a bit and set it to music. Here's the result :

Happy Birthday by ChasCMusic

It's your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday! 

Doom and gloom and dark despair
People dying everywhere!
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
May the candles on your cake
Burn like cities in your wake.
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
Your servants steal, your wife's untrue
Your children plot to murder you
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
Burn the castle and storm the keep
Kill the women, but save the sheep
For your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday!
Birthdays come but once a year
Marking time as Death draws near
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! Happy Birthday!
Now you've aged another year
Now you know that Death is near
On your Birthday! Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! (thud!)
Now that you're the age you are
Your demise cannot be far
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday!
Black Death has just struck your town
You yourself feel quite run-down
On your Birthday! Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
Burn, then rape by firelight
Add _romance_ to life tonight
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday!
Indigestion's what you get
From the enemies you 'et
On your Birthday! Happy Birthday!

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
We love children, yes we do
Baked or broiled or in a stew
On your Birthday! Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
May your deeds with sword and axe
Equal those with sheep and yaks
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday!
This one lesson you must learn
First you pillage, then you burn
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday!
While you eat your birthday stew
We will loot the town for you,
On your Birthday! Happy Birthday!

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
We brought linen, white as cloud
The women sit and sew your shroud
On your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
Just be glad the friends you've got
Haven't found out you-know-what
On your Birthday! Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! Happy Birthday!
I'm a leper, can't you see
Have a birthday kiss from me
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
It's your birthday never fear
You'll be dead this time next year
On your Birthday! Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday! (thud!) Happy Birthday!
So far Death you have bypassed
Don't look back, he's gaining fast
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
You must marry very soon
Baby's due by next full moon
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday! 

It's your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
When you've reached this age you know
That the mind is first to go
On your Birthday!  Happy Birthday!
It's your Birthday ! Happy Birthday!
You are very, very old
Soon you will be dead and cold
It's your Birthday  Happy Birthday. Thud. 

Arthur Askey is a Cunt

Who remembers Arthur Askey? Big hearted Arthur. Diminutive Arthur. Played a huge role in the last war defeating Hitler. Good for morale. Kept up spirits during the blitz. Strains of Vera Lynn. Pranced about the stage like a butterfly and sucked like a bee. Old theatre. Old music hall. Quite small with diminutive talent. Queen said to love him. Don’t believe all Lizzy’s proclamations. Royalty sometime lie and fart just like the rest of us. Not me, I just lie. New macrobiotic diet keeps me regular and wind free. Mendacity being my middle name and all. Actually it is Alfred. Made the transition from music hall to tele in the 60’s and 70’s. Then his legs fell orwf. Not so chirpy now me old cockney sparrow, eh? Actually from Liverpool. So not even a thieving Londoner just a thieving Scouser. Some comfort in that, I’m sure. Arthur never really recovered. Propelled himself on a skateboard. Small dogs used to pee on him at traffic lights.  Merciful release for the viewing public when he died. Not enough to put in a size 10 shoe box. Buried in the Isle of Dogo, just like the rest of the country.


Gentle readers, I will let you be the judge.

And now you know why I like to burn stuff.

In The Great Hall: Part VII

This picy was taken some time ago when Roland briefly usurped the throne with a wandering troop of ‘New Romantics.’ He filled the Great Hall with coterie and caterwauling. Luckily my kingdom could not supply him with the right type of eye shadow, so he buggered off to Wales where they are happy to put up with this sort of thing, or so I’m told….

Flaxen had been laid prone and supine (surely an oxymoron?) upon the Great Chair in the Great Hall. As his senses returned he began to make out the uncomely, smelly and gaping visage of Cnut ‘The Dyslexic.’ Flaxen’s son, Athelstan ‘The Unsteady’ and his daughter, Hroslinda ‘Legs Akimbo’ also slowly impinged upon his rheumy eyes and dullard wits.

Flaxen (gasped): “Where is the fair Brynhildr?”

Hroslinda: “Father, we thought it prudent and in keeping with the past narrative, to cast her unto the midden pit.”

Athelstan: “Father, did my new pink breeches arrive from the haberdashers? I have sorely waited and am full of keen anticipation to feel the sequins next to my fair and turgid buttocks.”

Hroslinda: “Athelstan, why do you bother our father so with such trivial matters. Can’t you see he is pondering such weighty matters as to whom I am to be betrothed? My Lord is it King Erik, ‘Micropenis’ or King Redwald ‘The Mightily Hung.’ Tell me it is Redwald, I beseech thee!”

Cnut: “My Lord, the emissaries from Dudley are here with great offerings of pigs pudding, faggots and mushy peas.”

Flaxen: “Cnut, your breath, it would kill an anosmic at 30 paces. Have you been supping from the midden pit, once again?”

Althelstan: “Father there is something of great import which I must impart. From now on and forthwith I WISH TO BE KNOWN AS DEIRDRE.”

Before Flaxen could whisper, ‘O fuck’, he collapsed as if in a swoon……..

To be continued….    

       

Turn Left at Dudley Castle......

Where the fuck is Tipton? Surely the West Midlands should feature on everyone’s conception of hell. Has the cartographer never been to Dudley market on a Saturday morn? Elysian Fields may be paradise to some but my particular version of paradise featured Mandy Fields from the 5^th form of Tipton Secondary Modern circa 1972. O happy days!

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.    

Shit Names

Now I’m fairly certain the wise readers of this blog are unlikely to name their offspring Lucifer. What about Anal?  Believe it or not, New Zealand parents have actually had these names rejected by the Registrar of Births, Marriage and Deaths. The Registrar has not always been so discriminating. In 2008, twins were successfully named Benson and Hedges. Number 16 Bus Shelter is now four years old. If you was wondering: these are all boy’s names (obviously). I suspect that little Bus Shelter (as he likes to be called, these days) was named according to the locale of his conception. In part I blame the celebs. Some are clearly not part of the real world and this is often reflected in the poor name choices for their offspring. Pity poor Pilot Inspektor, Jermajesty and Sage Moonblood. I’m sure their classmates will prove kind. Home schooling may be the best option, as long as the parents are not involved in the education process. The good folk of Sweden are much more sensible. While Lego and Google have been sanctioned, Brfxxccxxmnpcccclllmmnprxvclmnckssqlbb11116, pronounced Albin, was not.   

There are two interrelated points to be made here. Firstly, I’ve always believed that the State’s sole obligation to the individual is to maintain order and leave us to get on with our lives unfettered by bureaucratic interference (mayhap this principle should be applied to enlightened folk only-wad ya think?). The state should have no say in our personal life choices, regardless how ill-judged they may be- may Woden give them wisdom. Secondly, no sensible individual would argue that this principle should apply to minors. The government has a moral and legal obligation to intervene if a child is subject to physical, emotional or psychological harm. I argue that saddling a child with a ridiculous or weird name constitutes such harm. The problem, of course, is deciding when a name transcends bad taste and becomes a social burden. The registrar is expected to apply ‘common sense’ rules. Names will be rejected if they cause offense to a reasonable person or if it includes a royal name or title. Numbers and symbols are also disallowed.

In spite of their names it is my heartfelt hope that these children grow up to be well adjusted adults. I fear that parents prone to making poor name choices are also likely to make poor life choices, in general. Most of the subsequent harm inflicted upon their children is not subject to legislation and may only become apparent, to a wider society, when their kids mature, if they ever do.  

The other point I would like to make is that some people are irredeemably stupid. Celebrities are not immune to stupidity, although in their instance money compensates for so many defects in their lives, as it does in ours. Alas, there is no ordinance against stupidity. By the way, Tallulah does the Hula in Hawaii is apparently doing well. Especially since a Family Court ruled she that she be taken into court custody so that her name could be changed. Not all the judiciary are imbued with self-evident, sound common sense.    

Since you asked, my children are called Saxmund and Hroslindi. These are my legitimate offspring. As for my bastards…..

             

Holiday Snaps: The Burning and Pillaging of Lindisfarne

I’m often out and about on my longboat with my murdering war band. Lately we have been targeting monasteries. Monks are really easy quarry. They never put up much of a fight, are never armed and are always willing to turn the other cheek which we smite mightily. Furthermore monasteries are a great repository for books and learning. Together with the wooden pews this all makes for a good burning. At the end of our pillage me and the lads like to line up the tonsured monks, place a red dot in the centre of their bald pate and then throw darts to see who can hit the spot. Harold ‘The Herald’ is very adept and is usually the first to reach one hundred and eighty. I usually get bored and crush the monk’s heads with a handy sceptre. We often stop off for a bit of light refreshment at the local kebab shop. Costas at Lindisfarne sells great wild boar kebabs and the daintiest of pastries. An absolute steal for 3 groats because we never pay. We usually finish off by burning the place down together with the local real estate agent- there goes the neighbourhood.   

The picture: This one was taken just after a brisk discussion with Asmund ‘The Monk.’ I argued that he would be better off writing his books in West Saxon runes rather than Latin which has been a dead language for nearly 400 years. We agreed to disagree and I terminated our discussion by introducing Asmund to my double headed Danish war axe, ‘Twat Cruncher’. Oh we did laugh! Note to self- must buy moustache wax.