Gm. Not at all like the late and great Great Orlando.
Hamlet: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue: but if you mouth it, as many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumbshows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o'erdoing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.
The Wind: I will rattle your sash windows without cease.
Sausage-eaters: We have nothing to hide and nothing to fear. Smell our penises: they have not been anywhere they should't ought to have been and done nothing they didn't ought to have not done. Please be good enough, sir, to smell my penis. You will find I am an innocent man.
Shagspire: I'm getting... smoked mackerel. And a mouldy basement cluttered with broken office furniture.
Ground Porks: You mean that five-legged high-backed swivel chair only one of the arms has broken off leaving a Roehamptonly exposed steel joint and some loose yellow foam protruding from the mulberry upholstery, which you ought not to have to look at?
Shøgspør: Just leave th'poetry to me, k?
Groundlings: (who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumbshows and noise): K.
After seven years, 900-odd witnesses called, 20 million words or so spoken or written or in some way recorded, £150,000,000 in legal fees, a presiding judge who is presumably hoping to retire before anything actually gets concluded or not, and a final bill for 000,000s more to be formally presented by the grateful taxpayer to the perhaps more grateful lawyers, the Saville Inquiry is getting to the point where it may have begun starting to stop.
What do you the readers think?
Martin McGuiness (first-time murdereroopscaller from Derry): A somple opologo from tho Brotosh Govornmont wod have soffoced.
Retired Officer, 1 Bn. Parachute Regiment, looking a bit effete because he is still wearing his hair long and footballery in the early 1970s style but hard as nails for all that: Fuck off.
Uh-oh.
My Own Findings(pro bono publico): I would have been up Glenda Jackson like a rat up a drain, though I was only thirteen years old, if she had asked me. She never did, and my dreams have ingrown --- and reappeared as a cluster of tusk-like nasal and facial protrusions.
Peter Finch, Murray Head? Sorry, but not then or ever.
An example of thirteenth century political propaganda from the excellent Got Medieval. The post above also links to magical private parts and the earliest medieval joke book... many of the best bits of human life are here.
Somewhere near you a paedophile is grooming.
