In the Great Hall: Part: VI

A time for celebration! Today, is a great day for twas this day 5 years ago that the Jutes were soundly beaten at the ‘Battle of the Midden Pit.’ Hurrah!

Flaxen sat in his Great Chair in the Great Hall deep in his cups. His retinue, thegns, carls and assorted saucy wenches made merry and sang and danced and quaffed deep of the free flowing mead and ale. Flaxen had fought with honour that fateful day when he flailed his mighty double headed Dane axe, ‘Twat Cruncher’ in one hand and wielded his fine honed seacx, ‘Arse, Big Fat Arse, Biter’ in the other. Many a Jute had had their twat crunched and arse bitten that day. Flaxen’s son, Athelstan ‘The Unsteady’ had fought next to his father and had lost a false eyelash and pink enamel had been chipped off his breastplate after a fierce encounter with the transvestite bodyguard to the Jutish King, Olaf ‘The Rectal Raider.’ Olaf escaped that day only to be buggered, unto death, days later, by a wandering troop of effeminate Danes. The minstrels sang of Olaf in the great saga: ‘Olaf Lived and Died by the Pink Sword.’ Although, in truth, it was never a popular refrain amongst the West Jutes. Of course, the East Jutes did revel in the saucy ballad, but the telling of this story will have to await a more propitious time. 

It was whispered on the wind that Olaf’s only extant son, Gerhard ‘The Not Very Likely’ would feign a peace accord with the Tipton Saxons in order to make war on their mutual and much despised enemy, the Netherton Saxons. Flaxen brooded. Indeed, the West Midland metropolitan area was beset with intrigue, chavs, murderous vagabond rogues, East Europeans and the feckless unemployed. If Flaxen made concord with the Jutes he would risk a breach with the Angles of the march. There was much to ponder. Flaxen’s head began to spin with intoxication born of excessive drinking. His vision dimmed and his reverie was curtailed by the vision of Brunhildr. But this was no phantasm. The raspberry jelly bejewelled breast of Brynhildr stood within a licking. For it was she. And let us be frank, the area for a licking was vast. Before Flaxen could whisper, ‘O fuck’, he collapsed as if in a swoon……..
To be continued….    

Flaxen Saxon's Cosmology Special

Often as I leave ‘Costas Kebab Emporium’ in Tipton High Street, on a Friday night, I’m berated by late night revellers about the deep imponderable and ineffable mysteries of the cosmos. Usually I mumble incoherently about a dark, indifferent and insentient universe before falling face down in the gutter besmirched with mild, but tangy, chilli sauce. Therefore, suitably inspired and fortified by an abiding curiosity tinged with cosmic awe and 8 pints of Bank’s bitter, I am about to embark on Flaxen Saxon’s Cosmology Special………

Dear Flaxen Saxon, Why is it that we are able to fly men to the moon and send deep space probes to the outer reaches of the Solar System but I have to wait 75 minutes for the number 127 bus to Dudley Zoo? Furthermore, at every other stop, the Ukrainian bus driver is upbraided by little old Polish ladies about the cost of the fare. Bewailing the fact that the fare used to be only 3 Kopeks and the wheat hereabouts used to grow 6 foot tall, until the Germans came……

Mrs Gorlinski-Mugumbo

Dear Mrs Gorlinski-Mugumbo, If we are to learn anything from Einstein’s theory of special relativity it is that the speed of light is a constant, irrespective of our relative motion or position. However, as predicted by Einstein’s famous theorem, mass and time dilation increase as we approach this speed. Therefore, to reduce your wait, at the bus stop, you are advised to travel at least 90% of the speed of light. However, you need to be aware that your mass will also increase by times 2.3; you fat arsed cow. Also, due to concomitant time compression, and new government regulations with regard to the state pension, you will have to wait another 150 years before you can retire, unless of course you are Romanian.     

For Reference: 1 Kopeck is equivalent to 5 billion Rhodesian dollars.

Dear Flaxen Saxon, Is it true that the Crab Nebula is the remnant of a supernova observed in 1054AD, without the aid of a telescope, in the constellation of Taurus? 

Mrs Itchytwat

Dear Mrs Itchytwat, I had crabs in my black hole’s event horizon once- itches like fuck, doesn’t it? Try one part paraffin, one part DDT.

Dear Flaxen Saxon, How come every time I fart a big pink bubble extrudes from my arse. It reminds me of the expansion of the early universe following the ‘big bang’ some 14 billion years ago. The brown swirly bits on the outside of the bubble are reminiscent of the nascent galaxies which formed within the first few billion years of the universe’s origin. I wonder whether the universe could have been similarly born of a black, although slightly puckered, hole.  How can I return to those halcyon days when all I had to worry about, when I farted, was the faint possibility of a little residual moistness? 

Mr Tightsphincter

Dear Mr Tightsphincter, Stop swallowing your bubble gum.

Dear Flaxen Saxon, Do we live in an infinite universe or a universe subscribed by limits? If the universe is finite what is its geometry, what are Quasars and finally what do astronauts call haemorrhoids in space? 

Mr  Nogirlfriend,

  

Dear Mr Nogirlfriend, To answer your questions in sequential order: I don’t know; I don’t know; I don’t know; Quasars are a tasty wheaty snack which we can all enjoy and lastly, arseteroids.

Flaxen Saxon leaves the last word, at least with regard to the universe, to the late, great, Douglas Adams.

‘There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened’.

   

Holiday snaps: The Dunkirk Excursion

This was taken on the beach just outside Dunkirk. In truth, I wasn't really on holiday as we’d just sacked and burnt the town to the ground. Pillaging and rapine is not the giggle it used to be. I swear these town’s people are catching on to us murdering reivers and moving all their valuables together with their fairest maidens out of town. I ask, is that sporting of them, or what? Imagine my chagrin when I was accosted by some petty civil servant upon entering the gates. He had the temerity to ask if I had a ‘permit of entry’. Where is the civility in that? I explained, with some justification, that my double headed, Danish, war axe, 'Twat Cruncher' was my permit to do exactly what I liked. But it is no good arguing with ‘jobs worth’ niggling officials, so I lopped off his ill-favoured bonce, thus lightening his bureaucratic load. Oh, we did laugh! It now has pride of place on the great wall of the great hall and serves the practical need of keeping the flies off the wattle and daub. Any ichor that draineth and drippeth is promptly lapped up by my faithful wolf, Eingar. ‘Good boy, Eingar.’  

And before you ask, I'm the pretty boy in the full faced helm.

Outside the Great Hall: Part V

Flaxen sat majestically and completely pissed upon his great chair outside the great hall. The retinue clustered around the midden pit which was brimming with raspberry jelly. Standing in front of Flaxen stood Brynhildr and Edith, both naked and lightly smeared with the finest scented lard. In order to test their love for Flaxen the fair maids had agreed to a jelly wrestling contest in the midden pit.  Harold the Herald was acting as commentator and referee in this 3 minute bout, 8 round, grudge match.

Harold: “Ladies and gentlemen, in the squalid corner we have the fair Brynhildr weighing in as a 42 inch D cup. In the rank corner we have the elegant Edith ‘Swan Neck’ sporting a modest 32 inch B cup. Ladies, I want a clean match. No nipple tweaking, twat munching, arse fisting and definitely no twerking.”

The match began, as predicted, with a strong spirited start from Brynhildr. A blinding flick of her golden tresses was followed up with a stinging face slap from her ample and pendulous bosom. Edith reeled under the onslaught but recovered strongly, retrieved her hat pin, and plunged it deep into Brynhildr’s vitals. Brynhildr screamed, gasped and fell lifeless into the jelly where she was consumed and sank without a trace, never to be seen again, possibly.

Flaxen: “Fuck, is that it? I paid 50 groats to organise this match and it is all over in a thrice.”

Harold: “My Lord, we still have the leper shaking, dwarf stretching and topless darts to come.”

Flaxen: “Bring on the lepers. And this time I want them weighed before and after the shaking.”

To be continued……..

  

And the Moral of this Tale is?

My old granddad was a strange old bloke. Very stiff and Victorian. He was in the Great War and fought at the Somme. He never spoke to me as a child except on one occasion. I was about twelve and he had come back from the pub and was very pissed. He winked at me and said in his broad black country dialect: ‘Would you like to see something?’ Fuck off, it was a long time ago and essentially I’m middle class these days. I’ve had to suppress my accent because, no bugger can understand what I’m saying and folk associate my indigenous accent with being dim. Perhaps sometime my accent becomes thick to be a tune with my audience. Being of a naturally inquisitive nature I nodded yes. He took me to the back room and opened a drawer to an old mahogany desk. He rummaged briefly in the drawer and withdrew a string containing a series of oddly shrivelled objects. He smiled. ‘Can you guess what this is?’  I looked on in wonder and said ‘no’. ‘They be ears’, he slurred. ‘What sort of ears granddad’, I gasped. ‘Well ones over here are taken from the Hun and these are Frenchy.’ It seems my wicked old grandpa had been taking a few souvenirs from the battlefield. Interestingly there was a total of 23 ears: 2 taken from the devilish Hun, the rest from Frenchy. At the time it didn’t strike me as odd that there were more French ears than German. My grasp of history, at the time, was poor. Years passed and old gramps drops dead. The old sod left absolutely bugger all, except to me. He bequeathed to me an old wooden box. When I returned from the funeral I took the box into my bedroom. I have to admit I had an idea what might lie within. With trembling hands I opened the box. Inside, in all their gristly glory was grampa’s ear collection. It did cross my mind to chuck them in the bin, but I didn’t, I suppose I was oddly fascinated with the grisly relics and flattered that my grampa had decided to leave them to me. So I put them in the drawer. Years passed and like most folk I married and had kids. I came home one night from the local pub after drinking more than my two livers could handle and possessed with a morbid fascination decided to examine the ear collection (gramps would have been proud). I suppose they had changed little over the years. They had taken on a dark, amber hue and had coiled in on themselves and could no longer be recognised as ears. I fell asleep in bed with the ears loosely clenched in my drunken mitt. I awoke bleary eyed, sore headed and peeked gently over the covers to see my infant son sitting on the bed. Slowly as my eyes focussed I noticed that he had the ear collection in his tiny pudgy hands. One of the ears was firmly placed in his mouth and he was biting down with obvious relish. Of course he was teething, bless him, and I think he was deriving comfort from a French ear. After depositing my son on the bed my wife had left the room and didn’t see what had happened- which was just as well as she would not have been amused. Moral of the story: The French make third rate soldiers but first class teething rings.    

Oh No, it’s Whitiwhangi Day!

Happy Whitiwhangi day! For you dozy benighted Pomms, Whitiwhangi day (6^th February) is New Zealand’s National Day. It celebrates the signing of a solemn treaty between the ‘British Colonial Governor of Her Majesty’s Government’ and the Maori in 1847. As a slight digression I would like to introduce the less educated amongst you to the noble race which is Maori. Ethnologists are of the opinion that the first Maoris arrived in New Zealand as Asylum Seekers sometime in the Middle Ages. They found a bountiful land colonised by a peaceful and equally noble race, called the Moriori. Mutual respect was only marred by the fact that the Maori had an irrepressible appetite for human flesh. As it was against their culture and religious custom to eat their own, they decided to eat the indigenous people. In very short order they had porked their way through this fair people and moved on to eat all the large birds, mammals and frogs. Today, the only indigenous creature left in New Zealand is a highly camouflaged, fast moving and slightly tasteless marsupial, known in the Maori language as ‘donttastlikeKFC,ehbro.’

To return to our Solemn National Day. It is reputed that the Governor of 1847, Sir Effingham-Peffingham was suffering from syphilitic ague prior to and up to the signing of the treaty. Some say he deviated from standard British Colonial Policy, of the time. Usually, British Army drill was to send the local chocos off to an early grave, and at double time too. Of course, when faced with the local duskies waving fruit and sharpened sticks the best response was always to ‘fire a volley’ and finish off the wounded, and less fleet of foot, with the bayonet.

Unfortunately for the Empire, Sir E was suffering from delirium tremens on the day of the signing. For his entertainment, the local Maori Warriors performed their formidable war dance, ‘The Haka.’ The stout warriors, all painted and covered in feathers, reminded the Governor, in his delirium, of the Nelson Rep chorus line. After all, the Governor was notoriously short sighted and thick.

The treaty was duly signed by the Governor and the Tribal Leaders. Luckily the Maoris could not read or write English. The clause they failed to notice (stupid Maoris), was the bit about allowing White Folk, known in Maori as Pakiha to shoot any Maori on sight on Whitiwhangi day, as long as it was before noon. Good man that Governor.

As usual, I celebrated ‘Whitiwhangi Eve’ with four bottles of medicinal red wine (as is the custom) and awoke next morning feeling like a Frenchman’s crotch. After retching up over the dog I noticed that it was 11.50am. I panicked somewhat as I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to legally shoot someone. So without further ado, and without getting dressed, I reached for my father’s trusty 303 Lee Enfield rifle. The same weapon he had used to shoot unarmed German prisoners at the battle of El Alamein. Shortly after this incident my father’s contribution to the war effort was permanently curtailed due to wounds inflicted during a brisk encounter with the renowned, and much feared, SS SeamStress division. These Valkyries could sow SS runic insignia, in silver thread, on your epaulet in under 20 minutes and double stitch at that; fucking amazing! During the battle my father received a puncture wound to the arse from a rusty bodkin. The infection rapidly spread to his cock and as a consequence he spent 6 months in a Venereal Disease hospital in Blighty. The word around the camp fire, at the time, was that my father had caught the infection after an intoxicated and ill-judged liaison with a wild, desert, she goat; absolute nonsense. It is well known that you can catch this sort of thing from toilet seats and dirty sewing baskets.

With shaking hands I slammed a fresh magazine into the Lee Enfield and rushed onto the porch. Luckily for me I saw a Maori in the adjacent field not a 100 paces away. I raised the musket to my shoulder, took careful aim and slowly squeezed the trigger and was promptly rewarded to see my quarry spiral to the ground. I rushed inside for my trusty scalping knife and bounded over to the fallen Maori to gather my well-deserved trophy. Imagine my disgust when I realised that I hadn’t shot a Maori after all but shot my Dutch neighbour, Mr Neils Van der Pump. In mitigation, I have to say that his Indonesian wife had been standing close by and she does look a little bit Maori. I did consider shooting her as well and could hardly miss from two paces. But I suppose I’m a sentimental old fool and it didn’t seem quite right to shoot her under the circumstances, as her husband had suddenly took quite poorly. I did offer to apply a tourniquet to the wound on his neck, but neither of them seemed too keen on the idea. So I left her to administer first aid and retreated back to my bed to sleep off the previous night’s excess. I had hardly fallen asleep when I was rudely awakened by the local plod. Thereafter all is a blur. I remained in custody for several months prior to trial. Poor Mrs Saxon had to work 20 hours a day to keep the farm afloat. She did contact my flaxen haired cunt of a son to ask for help. But he was too busy finding ‘spiritual enlightenment’ on a commune in Perth, Western Australia. Spiritual enlightenment, my arse! From what I can see he spends his days banging small breasted Asian ladies, sometimes two at a time (nice work if you can get it), and judging from the photos some of the ‘ladies’ aren’t real woman at all.

I finally had my day in court. I must admit I raised a spirited defence. However, things looked bleak after the prosecution’s final summing up: “Your Honour, I submit that Mr Saxon is a demented, chronic alcoholic with a tenuous grasp on reality. It is recorded your Honour, that after a particularly heavy and prolonged drinking bout, he thought he had turned into a canister of ‘Shake N Vac’ (Alpine Dew) and was found by his wife rolling naked on the carpet shouting: ‘I am fragrant, suck me off with the vacuum.’ I rest my case your Honour.” But bugger me if I didn’t have a stroke of luck. Poor Mr Van der Pump had lost the power of speech after my ill-fated shot had destroyed his larynx. This same lucky bullet had also divided nerves in his spinal cord and consequently he was paralysed from the nose down. The upshot of course was that he was unable to provide a verbal or written deposition; in other words, a piss poor witness. The case against me rested on the sole testament of his Indonesian wife. This poor cow couldn’t speak a word of English and her Court appointed interpreter had just been deported as an illegal alien. The outcome was not in question, and I was promptly, and deservedly, found innocent and freed.

I confess that after this encounter with the law, I am truly a wiser but not a sober man. Although, I have to say I can’t wait for Mr Van der Pump’s children to grow up so I can shoot them on Whitiwhangi Day, before noon. After all, they do look a little like Maoris……..              

   

This is what happens when I stop taking the meds

A psychiatrist writes: Mr Saxon has many deep and unresolved issues
stemming from a highly dysfunctional childhood and early family life.
His psychological tumult finds expression in his brooding and
nihilistic prose and poetry. This offers but a temporary respite and
can no way lead to a permanent resolution of Mr Saxon’s deep seated
and profound psychological problems.

A Flaxen Saxon replies: Fuck off Dr Fell. You only see the portion of
my psyche which I deign to reveal.

Now for more pretentious, self-indulgent and cathartic poetry. If you aint slashing your wrists after this one, then you are already dead.  

    

Night and day become as one,

Unrestrained grey, endlessly trudges on.

Scant sense, no pleasure, no pain,

Humdrum certainty in a coarse domain.

 Murky shallows, indifferent response,

Ill defined colours of no consequence.

Toneless flows of clammy pallor,

Clumsy devices of scant veneer.

Boundless detachment and callous regard,

Pitiful retort and emotional retard.

Wilted riposte to arguments feeble,

All is damned, all is ignoble.

This day was like the last,

Stretching tedium into infinite past.

The future is but the same,

Quietly driven calmly insane.

Lengthening shadows on a windswept shore,

No sense of time in a place which is amoral.

Pity the life that remains restrained,

Pity the life that is all but drained.

Dragged slowly into eternal sloth,

On a lamed charger decked in a ragged cloth.

Limpid stance in an entropic domain,

A fool to the end and fools remain.