the letter b is out re-gathering her scattered brain cells. so in the meanwhile, let this wee tale - written many many many :: ad infinitum :: moons ago - keep you company.
enjoy.
OF CELTS, VIKINGS AND A MOANER OF A SAXON TOMBOY...
"...there has been frequent border skirmishes up north lately. All the men in the village have been at their wits' end, the Celts seems to be getting bolder by the day. And rumours has it that their kin across the Irish Sea are sending reinforcements, wave after wave shiploads of 'em freckled Gingers ["Oi, ye Ginge!" Yeah fill in yer Irish jokes 'ere..]. Adding to our woes, news coming from the south that the Northmen are heading towards the city of York. Having successfully established a mini-kingdom at Anglia, it seems they don't quite get enough. Greedy sods. They'd just lay their grubby mitts on just anything.
Well, those Northmen - some called 'em Norsemen - are gigantic thugs/savages over 7 ft (?) tall, having a penchant for wearing queer looking helmets - with horns that make 'em look absolutely gormless as rams. They are a godless bunch, but of course coming from some place called "Land of the Midnight Sun" - eh? Other sources even quoted that they are gays - oooer!!! Can't blame 'em, can ye, spending months on end at sea. Ye know what these rumours are, rumours with a capital R. But nothing is more annoying than what I heard this morning at the market square: those bunch of cheapo maidens speculating how those Northmen look like. Cor blimey, what absolutely poor taste they've got. Shameless ignorant dimwits. It's absolutely logic defying that they are even allowed to breed. How the hell did they get this far in life????
Father had a reet old flip when I told him that I've made up me mind joining the rest of the fellas at the base near the border. Mother thought I was possessed. It must be that dopey priest who put such thoughts in her mind. Just because I stopped going to church that Father Ted [with a name like that, who's gonna take him seriously?] spread such malicious allegations that I'm straying away from the flock. I pity the congregation for the weekly load of crap he dishes out. I do seriously think that bald pate of his does impair his sense of judgement massively. Or, the strenuous translation from the unintelligible Latin to Anglo-Saxon might had affected him so badly; that he started all those brimstone and fire gobbledegook. Or perhaps the Father Superior - i.e: the Pope - back in Rome might had given him some real serious stick. Hohoho, I could well imagine that. A reet old knock/slap on that bald spot! [snigger, snigger]
Oh well. Had better turn in early tonight. Oh, I really feel so good with this new sassy haircut of mine. No more cumbersome plaits then. Kewl! Nice! Whatever..."
an entirely original yarn originally inscribed in anglo-saxon by the letter b who has got quite an imagination. copyrighted stuff, geddit? © breanagh mctavish 2000, 2004