November 5th is when we Brits get the fireworks out, have bonfires and reenact a BATS scene (a man unfortunately).
This year promises to be a little different, so it is time to dispel the myths that generations of school children have been fed.
Being an Honest and True Account of the Aftermath of the Notorious Gunpowder Plot, otherwise known as the Jesuit Treason
‘Tis well known that in the year 1605, in this land, that a gang of ruthless Catholic sympathisers attempted to murder, most foully, His Gracious Majesty King James, and His Majesty’s loyal Lords Assembled, by means of gunpowder secreted within the undercroft of the Lords House within the Palace of West Minster. And the story that His Majesty’s Ministers would like you, dear peasants, to believe, is that the notorious Guy Fawkes was arrested in said undercroft, and admitted his guilt under torture.
But the truth, my readers, is rather more dramatic. Fawkes was indeed caught with gunpowder, and the means whereof it could be ignited, but in an attempt to organise a safe cordon around the site of two chains diameter (40 meters), necessitating the yeomen being dispatched to hastily purchase a sufficient quantity of yellow silk ribbon, Fawkes escaped. The subsequent events have been withheld from public knowledge in light of this grave incompetence.
The rascal endeavoured to journey to Holbeche House in Staffordshire, which was the agreed meeting place for the villains. By three-fourths of the distance, he had arrived in Stratford-on-Avon as dusk set in, and sought board and a bed in the Greyhound Inn.
After a fine repast of beef, cheese and ale, he allowed the maid, a comely wench calling herself Babs Moorecock, to show him to the best room. Babs was not averse to earning herself an extra shilling or two by providing comfort to respectable gentlemen, which was indeed the outward appearance of said Guy Fawkes. However, Fawkes was tired after his hasty flight from the capital, and planned an early departure on the morrow, so declined the offer, with reluctance, as Babs’ blouse dipped lower.
Much noise and laughter caught Babs’ attention in the bar, and it transpired a large group of Sheriff’s men were in, buying rough cider and making merry. Mr Shakespeare was sitting in his usual corner by the fire, parchment and quill in hand, inkpot on the fender, getting ideas for those plays people seem to like in London. Babs could see his glass was empty, so poured him another measure of Madeira wine.
“What’s with them tough lot, Bill?” she asked him.
“Words got out, Babs, there’s fugitives on the loose. Regicide they say. Sheriffs in all the counties have got men together looking for ‘em.”
“Ohh, Mr Shakespeare, though dust speak big words, what’s Reg-a-side?”
“Lean in closer, Babs, and I’ll whisper it.”
Taking a good swig of the wine, William Shakespeare contemplated her cleavage then, pulling her in even closer, said “Killing the King!”
Now Babs had a head for business, and was soon knocking on the door of the best bedroom, where the stranger was struggling to get to sleep after the excitement of his escape and the noise downstairs.
“Ten bob says I calms you down, and the Sheriff’s men are none the wiser” suggested Babs.
Guy realised this was the safest course of action, so gave the coin, as much as Babs usually earned in a week, and she slipped into bed alongside him.
History does not recall exactly what transpired between the sheets, but suddenly Babs slid out of bed and fell to the floor spitting, crawled to the door and to the top of the stairs; “HE’S UP HERE, LADS, THE TRAITOR’S UP HERE” she yelled.
Quickly overpowered by the Sheriff’s men, the evil Fawkes was hustled past Babs, still sitting on the floor coughing gently.
“Bitch, we had a deal, didn’t we?” he asked.
Babs glared with hate at the traitor, and replied “I warned you from the start, I DON’T SWALLOW!”
