fallenmystic
Tribune
I vaguely remember the sonnet was written to honour how valiantly the Army of British and Brunswick Alliance fought to change the tide of the battle.
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Vignettes from Barb’s ancestral past
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Brilliant!
I wouldn't care either way as long as it includes the caning of that tight little part
That's in the New Testament, the wedding at Cane-Her
fallenmystic
Tribune
Sorry that reference whooshed over my head... I suppose I'm a bit more familiar with song references than those regarding the Bible.
M
montycrusto
Guest
The Wedding at Cana (pronounced “cane-ah” in English) was that biblical piss-up when Jesus allegedly turned water into wine, threatening the livelihoods of all liquor-store owners across Galilee and Judaea..Sorry that reference whooshed over my head... I suppose I'm a bit more familiar with song references than those regarding the Bible.
fallenmystic
Tribune
Thanks much for the answer! And I think now I understand why they wanted to crucify him.
windar
Teller of Tales
Very close. It was written for the Swedish group ABBA to win the Eurovision song contest
Back in the day, there was a Canadian comedy duo, Wayne and Shuster. One of their jokes went that a real miracle would be if Jesus turned Ontario wine into wine....maybe you have to be Canadian to get it...
M
montycrusto
Guest
meanwhile our very own @Barbaria1 has the unique ability to turn witter into whineVery close. It was written for the Swedish group ABBA to win the Eurovision song contest
Back in the day, there was a Canadian comedy duo, Wayne and Shuster. One of their jokes went that a real miracle would be if Jesus turned Ontario wine into wine....maybe you have to be Canadian to get it...
(Hand me my demerits now
)
meanwhile our very own @Barbaria1 has the unique ability to turn witter into whine
(Hand me my demerits now
Days of whine and rubber hoses ... makes one think of a montycrusto drawing, doesn’t it?
twonines
LIMERICUS
Any suggestion that Barb is related to Sir John Moore is purely speculative!
Priceless. The painting was made just before she was beheaded. Anyone care to venture why?
M
montycrusto
Guest
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
She complained too much?
twonines
LIMERICUS
If it is Ann Boleyn, treason and adultery were the official reasons.
M
montycrusto
Guest
But it’s quite clearly a portrait of that notorious Tudor lady, Barbetta Hardcock. She never lost her head, but always gave it.
windar
Teller of Tales
You remember we covered that in a story, don't you? That re-enactment in the Tower...You slept with your own brother, or so the story went...Your own maid testified about it and you confessed (after a bit of "encouragement" on the rack). For those who missed it the first time https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/london-calling.6345/
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Harold Godwinson and Borbála Annelise De Moore
“Shot through the eye
And you're to blame
Barb, you give love a bad name …”
Harold’s death in 1066 at the Battle of Hastings by virtue of an Arrow shot through his eye, remains one of the most legendary aspects of English History. Many supposed learned-fellows have, through the ages, written essays and tomes on why, despite the depiction of his death in the tapestry at Bayeux, King Harold could not possibly have been smote by an arrow through his optic aperture. They cite, most notably, the alleged bold attack made personally by his Conqueror, William, who, it has been written, broke through the English lines and hacked his royal enemy to pieces.
All very confusing.
Well, be confused no more good people, because the discovery and deciphering of valuable historical notes in the vaults under the ancestral home of Barbara Anne Moore, reveals the truth …
Borbála Annelise De Moore, a young female English Aristocrat, whose Mother was of Hungarian descent, had been shipped off to the family holiday home in Brighton, a small Saxon village on the South Coast of England.
Her mother had warned of the oft talked about threat of those awful creatures hopping over from Normandy, and had said that their leader wasn’t called “William the Bastard” for nothing. However, her father, The Baron Edwin De Moore, dismissed her concern with a ‘Poppycock’ and a ‘Fiddlesticks’. Edwin was already Earl of a small piece of Southern England, a fiefdom that found its way into his family during the time of the Viking Raids. However, being an ambitious man, he was not satisfied with his lot – no, Edwin wanted a Dukedom all of his own!
Young Borbála’s paternal brief was clear. She was to identify the most likely future King of England and align her nubile body with his own. Her father had already raised and contributed his own fyrd to the Army, and so now it was up to his daughter to close the deal.
And so, to this end, Edwin despatched his young offspring, no older than her late teens – which was actually quite old back then – off to their Maison De Vacances, so that she could be nearer to the whichever Court became the Royal one. Holidaying somewhere between Sussex and Wessex seemed to be a good spot to sojourn, until, that was, Harold Godwinson had emerged as the frontrunner over Edwin of Wessex. Harold, having been resident on the South Coast for most of 1066 to date, had then chosen to head North with his armies to fight with the Vikings from Norway.
But how could she do what had been asked of her with the object of her contrived attention fighting hundreds of miles away?
Then … news! Bad news for the country, because the Normans were on their way. But good news for Borbála as this brought ‘her King’ scuttling back to the South coast without further delay.
Upon his return the young hussy had taken no time at all to become introduced to Harold. Despite the presence of Harold’s two supposed existing wives, Ealdgyth and Edith-The-Fair, Borbála had with consummate ease, via the flash of a naked shoulder, or a missing brooch pin revealing too much from a shadowy cleavage from an over exposed décolletage, soon captured the lust-fuelled King under her spell.
It is in this suitably spellbound state that on the 14th October 1066 we find Harold Godwinson out for a stroll with the lovely, if a little dishevelled, Borbála Annelise De Moore on his arm.
“Oh, look my love,” say she to him, “From the view atop this hill we can see your men in their encampment. Don’t they look splendid.” Without waiting for an answer, she quickly moved the one-sided conversation on. “And see the stream how it sparkles. What a beautiful Autumn day it is. We shall remember this day forever for its blue skies and falling leaves …”
“Let us hope that it is all we have to remember it for my dear, especially given the reports of William making his way inland from the coast this very minute.”
“Oh, Harold …” she stopped their promenade and reached up onto the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek, “You worry too much.” Borbála wanted, no scratch that, she needed, to consummate their relationship in order to secure the wedlock her father’s ambition demanded.
“Come my King, let us lie a while on the grass and observe the glorious evidence of beauty that nature provides.”
It was 7:45 in the morning. Borbála had stayed the night in a large tent within the military camp, the glamping equivalent of its times, next to the King’s. But, much to her wanton disappointment, no tent-hopping had occurred in any way.
“My dear, I fear that today of all days holds greater concerns for me than having the luxury to contemplate nature’s splendour. I must return to my army and the necessary preparations.”
At this point the young girl pulled her older royal beau to the ground and whispered into his ear, her voice filled with the traditional family venom, and hissed, “You will let me have my way with you now, or you will never again have the opportunity to get your filthy hands on my perfect curves …” Borbála hoped that her father would appreciate the approach she was now taking in order to close this deal … she believed that he would.
Torn between his duty and his lust, King Harold Godwinson did what all men would have done, and have done ever since … he tried to have his cake and eat it too!
“My sweet little rose petal …”
… I’m not your fucking flower, I just need to see your cock … Borbála thought to herself, hoping that such curse words had been invented by 1066! Fortunately, this sentence remained inside her head.
“My love, I simply must return to my army, but you will move over there, by the large Oak Tree and wait for me in the shade. I will return forthwith and make the most gloriously passionate love to you …”
Not satisfied, but knowing that she would have to make do, Borbála did as she was bade.
The day was warm and after settling down, the young girl was sedated by the warmth of the sun’s rays shining through the canopy of the large tree, and she fell asleep. It was in this unconscious state that she dreamed of glittering streams, rolling hills, swooping birds and been fucked from Sussex to Essex and onto Wessex by the King. However, whilst she dreamt of such splendour, Borbála missed the big kick off.
Around 9am the Norman army arrived. The conflict was immediately engaged. William’s archers fired uphill at the English to little effect and the battle ebbed and flowed for the remainder of the morning.
At one-point Harold believed he had the upper hand and ordered a charging chase, but this petered out as the half-time whistle was blown.
As his men gorged themselves on food and drink, pausing the battle to sing notable renditions of rowdy songs, pausing only to yell insults at the enemy, Harold found his way back to the peak of the mound and his sleeping lover-to-be.
It was with the smitten look of fluttering eyes that Borbála once more saw the man of her dreams, literally … and she smiled.
“You have returned …” she spoke softly.
“Yes, my dear, I came …”
The girl’s face dropped, “I hope not my King, not yet at least … oh …” she giggled, “you mean that you came back here. Silly me, I thought … oh never mind. Kiss me.”
She grabbed his chain mail and pulled the heavy weight on top her prostrate body and latched her lips onto his. They kissed for several minutes and she could feel the growing bulge from inside the leather lining of his cod-piece.
“Oh, my King, is that all for me?” Borbála purred.
She heard Harold chuckle and imagined his smirk as he looked up above them.
“Is that rain in the air …?” he said, staring into the sky.
They were the last words he ever spoke as his heavily armoured body fell like a dead-weight onto her slender frame, his head propped against her shoulder, the wooden stem of the arrow protruding from his right eye.
She couldn’t move him and so it was in this state, pinned under the dead King’s body, that she was found by the victorious Norman invaders later in the day.
As they dragged Borbála Annelise De Moore away, no doubt to serve at their pleasure, she was heard to shout, “Get your fucking hands off me, you nasty Norman. Touch me again and I’ll squeeze your balls ‘til they bleed … ohhhh, your stinky breath what have you been eating …”
“Shot through the eye
And you're to blame
Barb, you give love a bad name …”
Harold’s death in 1066 at the Battle of Hastings by virtue of an Arrow shot through his eye, remains one of the most legendary aspects of English History. Many supposed learned-fellows have, through the ages, written essays and tomes on why, despite the depiction of his death in the tapestry at Bayeux, King Harold could not possibly have been smote by an arrow through his optic aperture. They cite, most notably, the alleged bold attack made personally by his Conqueror, William, who, it has been written, broke through the English lines and hacked his royal enemy to pieces.
All very confusing.
Well, be confused no more good people, because the discovery and deciphering of valuable historical notes in the vaults under the ancestral home of Barbara Anne Moore, reveals the truth …
Borbála Annelise De Moore, a young female English Aristocrat, whose Mother was of Hungarian descent, had been shipped off to the family holiday home in Brighton, a small Saxon village on the South Coast of England.
Her mother had warned of the oft talked about threat of those awful creatures hopping over from Normandy, and had said that their leader wasn’t called “William the Bastard” for nothing. However, her father, The Baron Edwin De Moore, dismissed her concern with a ‘Poppycock’ and a ‘Fiddlesticks’. Edwin was already Earl of a small piece of Southern England, a fiefdom that found its way into his family during the time of the Viking Raids. However, being an ambitious man, he was not satisfied with his lot – no, Edwin wanted a Dukedom all of his own!
Young Borbála’s paternal brief was clear. She was to identify the most likely future King of England and align her nubile body with his own. Her father had already raised and contributed his own fyrd to the Army, and so now it was up to his daughter to close the deal.
And so, to this end, Edwin despatched his young offspring, no older than her late teens – which was actually quite old back then – off to their Maison De Vacances, so that she could be nearer to the whichever Court became the Royal one. Holidaying somewhere between Sussex and Wessex seemed to be a good spot to sojourn, until, that was, Harold Godwinson had emerged as the frontrunner over Edwin of Wessex. Harold, having been resident on the South Coast for most of 1066 to date, had then chosen to head North with his armies to fight with the Vikings from Norway.
But how could she do what had been asked of her with the object of her contrived attention fighting hundreds of miles away?
Then … news! Bad news for the country, because the Normans were on their way. But good news for Borbála as this brought ‘her King’ scuttling back to the South coast without further delay.
Upon his return the young hussy had taken no time at all to become introduced to Harold. Despite the presence of Harold’s two supposed existing wives, Ealdgyth and Edith-The-Fair, Borbála had with consummate ease, via the flash of a naked shoulder, or a missing brooch pin revealing too much from a shadowy cleavage from an over exposed décolletage, soon captured the lust-fuelled King under her spell.
It is in this suitably spellbound state that on the 14th October 1066 we find Harold Godwinson out for a stroll with the lovely, if a little dishevelled, Borbála Annelise De Moore on his arm.
“Oh, look my love,” say she to him, “From the view atop this hill we can see your men in their encampment. Don’t they look splendid.” Without waiting for an answer, she quickly moved the one-sided conversation on. “And see the stream how it sparkles. What a beautiful Autumn day it is. We shall remember this day forever for its blue skies and falling leaves …”
“Let us hope that it is all we have to remember it for my dear, especially given the reports of William making his way inland from the coast this very minute.”
“Oh, Harold …” she stopped their promenade and reached up onto the tips of her toes to kiss his cheek, “You worry too much.” Borbála wanted, no scratch that, she needed, to consummate their relationship in order to secure the wedlock her father’s ambition demanded.
“Come my King, let us lie a while on the grass and observe the glorious evidence of beauty that nature provides.”
It was 7:45 in the morning. Borbála had stayed the night in a large tent within the military camp, the glamping equivalent of its times, next to the King’s. But, much to her wanton disappointment, no tent-hopping had occurred in any way.
“My dear, I fear that today of all days holds greater concerns for me than having the luxury to contemplate nature’s splendour. I must return to my army and the necessary preparations.”
At this point the young girl pulled her older royal beau to the ground and whispered into his ear, her voice filled with the traditional family venom, and hissed, “You will let me have my way with you now, or you will never again have the opportunity to get your filthy hands on my perfect curves …” Borbála hoped that her father would appreciate the approach she was now taking in order to close this deal … she believed that he would.
Torn between his duty and his lust, King Harold Godwinson did what all men would have done, and have done ever since … he tried to have his cake and eat it too!
“My sweet little rose petal …”
… I’m not your fucking flower, I just need to see your cock … Borbála thought to herself, hoping that such curse words had been invented by 1066! Fortunately, this sentence remained inside her head.
“My love, I simply must return to my army, but you will move over there, by the large Oak Tree and wait for me in the shade. I will return forthwith and make the most gloriously passionate love to you …”
Not satisfied, but knowing that she would have to make do, Borbála did as she was bade.
The day was warm and after settling down, the young girl was sedated by the warmth of the sun’s rays shining through the canopy of the large tree, and she fell asleep. It was in this unconscious state that she dreamed of glittering streams, rolling hills, swooping birds and been fucked from Sussex to Essex and onto Wessex by the King. However, whilst she dreamt of such splendour, Borbála missed the big kick off.
Around 9am the Norman army arrived. The conflict was immediately engaged. William’s archers fired uphill at the English to little effect and the battle ebbed and flowed for the remainder of the morning.
At one-point Harold believed he had the upper hand and ordered a charging chase, but this petered out as the half-time whistle was blown.
As his men gorged themselves on food and drink, pausing the battle to sing notable renditions of rowdy songs, pausing only to yell insults at the enemy, Harold found his way back to the peak of the mound and his sleeping lover-to-be.
It was with the smitten look of fluttering eyes that Borbála once more saw the man of her dreams, literally … and she smiled.
“You have returned …” she spoke softly.
“Yes, my dear, I came …”
The girl’s face dropped, “I hope not my King, not yet at least … oh …” she giggled, “you mean that you came back here. Silly me, I thought … oh never mind. Kiss me.”
She grabbed his chain mail and pulled the heavy weight on top her prostrate body and latched her lips onto his. They kissed for several minutes and she could feel the growing bulge from inside the leather lining of his cod-piece.
“Oh, my King, is that all for me?” Borbála purred.
She heard Harold chuckle and imagined his smirk as he looked up above them.
“Is that rain in the air …?” he said, staring into the sky.
They were the last words he ever spoke as his heavily armoured body fell like a dead-weight onto her slender frame, his head propped against her shoulder, the wooden stem of the arrow protruding from his right eye.
She couldn’t move him and so it was in this state, pinned under the dead King’s body, that she was found by the victorious Norman invaders later in the day.
As they dragged Borbála Annelise De Moore away, no doubt to serve at their pleasure, she was heard to shout, “Get your fucking hands off me, you nasty Norman. Touch me again and I’ll squeeze your balls ‘til they bleed … ohhhh, your stinky breath what have you been eating …”
FIN
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