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  • This is my Blog...There are many like it, but this one is mine...

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        Saturday, September 14, 2002

    I shamelessly stole this from somewhere else, and post it here for some much needed comic relief before I go off again...

    What Really Happened at Agincourt...

    The Flower of French Chivalry had formed up in immaculate order across the field, magnificent in their finest, glittering imported armour, resplendent in highly coloured livery and equipped with other rather camp accessories so often favoured by the French.

    "Pah! Assey 'y vous 'zis peetiful band of English ros'boef jesteurs! Zey sink zey are a match for uz?" lisped the Dauphin, impatient to start slaughtering as soon as possible.

    "Hmmm - I 'av 'erd zat leetle island does produce mighty warrieurs zometames?" said the Herald diplomatically.

    "Orsefezzers and panzeur peedle - az zey sey over zere een zere feelthy countray!" snapped the Constable of France. "We shall 'ave feenished zem off before eet eze even tame for elevnensees - ah am only concerned zat zere arenot enough of ze batards for uz all to get a propere beet of carnage een! "

    The Herald bit his lip and moved to the rear. He'd been down to the English camp and had a look round. They were a scruffy bunch, that was true, but he wasn't so sure the confidence of his commanders was fully justified. But then he was only wearing a rather lightweight bumfreezer jacket instead of plate armour, and was consequently more wary of the power of the English longbow....

    At the other end of the field, confidence was in somewhat shorter supply.....

    "I've humped this bloody stick for bleeding miles!" moaned Bill, a sturdy archer with skeletal deformities, "what am I supposed to do with the fucking thing now?" The usual cheery obedience of the English infantry was obviously wearing rather thin, and Sergeant Brigand realized this was a critical moment. He thought about it for a second, then smashed Bill round the head with his rusty, second-hand gauntlet pillaged by his father at Crecy.

    "Shaddap! Just set 'em up and do as yer fucking told!" he snarled. "And sharpen the sodding end properly, ye lazy fuck! That goes for the rest of ye too!"

    Sure enough, Bill and the others got to work, grumbling quietly, but not within earshot of the Sergeant or any of the noblemen who wandered anxiously up and down the line.

    "I wish I'd never come, I really do!" groaned John the Thatcher. "I'd just be rolling out of bed with Big Nell the Milkmaid right now...."

    "I know what you mean! The bloody catering's been a sodding disgrace. I've had the Katmandu Quickstep all the way from fucking Harfleur! It's worse than the bleedin' Glastonbury festival!" moaned Tom Carpenter, hewing away at the end of his stake as he eyed the glittering French array with concern. "It's all right for them - sodding snails and froglegs for breakfast no doubt, washed down wi' fancy wine an' stuff! Soft toilet paper - wet wipes -the works! What chance 'ave we fucking got I ask ye?" John winced and clutched his stomach. "Fucking 'ell! I've got to go again! If the battle starts before I'm back, sharpen me stake for me will ye?" he shouted, racing into the bushes at the end of Tramcourt Wood.

    "Chuffin 'eck!" cried Richard the Northener, "Me as well...." as he raced to the rear, clutching his nethers in a most undignified manner.

    King Henry looked anxious as he surveyed the position uneasily. "Hells bells and buckets of blood - there's an awful of them your Grace!?" said York uneasily. "Mmmm... never mind, I said a prayer. We'll be fine...." Henry replied coolly.

    "Ah, if only a few of the men that do no work today were here with us now, well, er, you know what I mean my liege?" said Westmorland anxiously.

    "Nonsense!" snapped the King. " Who says so? Half our chaps are in the bushes relieving themselves, that's all. Don't worry about it - chill out will ye?" Westmorland looked unconvinced. If only Imodium had been available in the 15th century he thought.... or even Kaolin and Morphine.....

    Meanwhile, the French, lusty and over-confident as usual in their pathetic, sneering, continental, arrogant, smug self-assurance, were champing at the bit and raring to go, the fools. At long last all was in order, and they slammed down their visors and charged toward the thinly manned English line.....

    The Herald, au fait with Crecy, Poitiers and numerous other battles, watched them racing in the direction of St. Ayn Desasterre and shook his head. There'd be tears before bedtime...

    Back at the English position, the mighty thunder of hooves and the clank of armour had a dramatic effect.

    "Sound the alarum! All hands man your battle stations!" shouted the King, and thousands of groaning men emerged from the bushes discarding their hose in the rush, and took up positions without even washing their hands. Stomach cramps notwithstanding, they bravely stood fast and clenched their magnificent well muscled buttocks, as the huge wave of heavy cavalry approached at full pelt, and the thunder of hooves shook the ground. Certain they were about to be smashed into the mud at any second, they nevertheless coolly prepared to face the end, as English hooligans have in the face of cavalry charges on foreign soil ever since, and brandished their weapons.....

    King Henry was hastily signing a note of surrender and agreements of safe passage to Calais, when suddenly, the thundering stopped. He looked up in astonishment to see that the French had halted dead in their tracks, some fifty yards short of the English line. What was this? Had his prayers been answered? He hastily hid the shameful documents in his sleeve and decided what to do... only one thing for it. Send in the lads!

    The first wave of French cavalry were in complete disarray, and cries of "Zoot Alors!", "Sacre Blue!", "Mon Dieu", "Au Secours" and other expressions called out by weedy Frenchmen in distress filled the air. "Phworr! What ees zis - le batards are abusing ze chemeecal warfare! Eet ees against all ze rules of chivalrey!" wailed the Dauphin, holding a lavender scented handkerchief to his enormous nose. "Mah Liege - wee must weethdraw immediately, or all ees lost! Zis stench ees from 'ell eetself - what 'ave zey been eating for fook's sake?" cried the Constable in utter horror.

    Even Sir Angus McDevastator, in charge of the Scottish contingent, was gagging and retching as he spluttered to his second in command. "Ye've got tae give 'em credit laddie - even Scotch lavvies are nae as bad as that!"

    But even as he began to solemnly salute the grim faced Englishmen ahead, the second wave of cavalry charged into the back of them, tipping everyone into the mud....Ten minutes later.....

    "Well, I'd never have thought it, but it hasn't turned out to be such a bad day after all?" said Bill brightly, ramming his bloodstained dagger through the visor of a fallen Frenchman, producing a ghastly, gurgling scream.

    "Nor me. Mind you, this is hard work - when do we get a break?" muttered John, drowning one man in the mud by standing on the back of his neck as he whacked another repeatedly on the head with a lead maul.

    "Huh! These are made for camping - time we got proper hammers! Five hits and he's still moaning..." he grumbled.

    "Stop whining you idle layabouts, and get to bloody work!" growled Sergeant Brigand, as he broke the neck of a wounded Frenchman floundering in the mud with well practised ease. "There's an hour and a half 'till lunch, and I don't want to see any slacking! Then later on you can strip your sleeves, fib about your scars and impress the neighbours... well, that's what the King said anyway. Until then, sodding pull your fingers out and look lively!"

    "Huh... work, work work..." muttered Bill as he departed, slicing the purse away from the Frenchman's neck and stuffing it into his quilted gambeston. "I tell you what, in a couple of hundred years there'll be a civil war, and his lot'll be first up against the wall..."

    And that's why I hate the French, too...