And that’s it! I’m not going to publish anymore of my story because (and I know this sounds mad, yes, pipe down) I want to do… something with it. I’m not sure what, but I think it’s very fun and good and I am in love with writing it and I dunno, maybe I’ll try get it published.
It probably won’t get published. But hey – gotta try.
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“HoiST ME Up LADs!”
The feast had gotten out of hand in a big way. And well – who gave a shit! In fear that we might all be killed the next morning, nobody was worried about their waistline; not one of us, not one Pugglemuntian gave a thought to their hangover. We’d gorged and sung and kissed and fought, and the mead had flowed like summer wind, and I’d drunk a vat of wine and tied my hair up in a ponytail and told Glob I wanted to marry her. Everybody was laughing and mad, everything was woozy and whirring. Drums! Bagpipes! A roaring big fire and mandolins! Mando-fucking-lins!
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Sir Bashful had already been and gone by the time I rode over to check in at the Catapultery. He wasn’t at the trebuchets on the ramparts either, though he’d clearly been there: they were stocked and loaded and ready to wang some serious beef, by which I mean throw boulders. It was a shame; Sir Bashful was a dab-hand at the trebuchets, a true artisan when it came to convincing bits of wood to sling heavy objects enormous distances. I realised with a disappointed huff that I must have missed the calibration process, which, given that it involves testing the trebuchets by launching criminals over the horizon, is quite obviously my favourite bit.
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My old auntie, Princess Aedabog, loved horses like a nutter. Some people just do: they love horses so much it becomes the cornerstone of their whole personality. I like horses, of course, very much so, but in what I like to think is quite a relaxed way. I have the same relationship with horses as I have with, I don’t know, my own legs: I’m glad they exist, I like it when they go fast, I don’t think about them much when I’m not using them, and I curse them when they don’t work properly.
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You understand, of course, that in an ideal world not one Pugglemuntian life would have ended in the siege. Would that I could protect every single one of my country folk! Would that I might spread my arms around them like great protective wings, sitting atop them like a mother goose on a golden egg and hissing at passersby. But it’s not an ideal world, as demonstrated by the fact that Mr Wiggle was devoured by poltergeists and I got jettisoned out of a backed-up shit-tube. Still, I told myself that I would do my damnedest to minimise the bloodshed. Precisely how though, I hadn’t quite figured out yet.
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Well.
It’d certainly been a rough morning, but you can’t fanny about when you’re a King. After a quick bath to get rid of all the slime and blood, off to the battlements I went. Against all odds, I found myself in a good mood as I strolled through the city with Captain Plug at my side (I decided to keep her around in case I needed to be punted anywhere else).
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The sludge was around our waists and everybody was panicking and somebody was letting out an absolutely ear-piercing scream that went on for ages and I went to tell them to knock it off but when I said “Oh pack it in would you” the screaming stopped too and I realised it had been me doing it. I raised my eyebrows at myself. I really don’t know what goes on in my head sometimes.
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Sewers get a lot of stick. There are no positive metaphors containing sewers. Slip a sewer into your verbal imagery and people assume the worst. ‘Lord Bramble had a mouth like a sewer’. See? You don’t know exactly what it means – perhaps Lord Bramble swore a lot, perhaps he drooled, perhaps he was just a bit gormless – but you know for certain it’s nothing good. Poor sewers. Nobody likes sewers.
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Lady Blanket is very tall and she has purple eyes and she’s very serious and she doesn’t laugh at a lot of things except for when I fall over and injure myself. She joined my knights four years ago, when she won the annual jousting tournament at the Harvest Festival (the event of the year, as you well know). It was a joust to remember. Sir Percy’s horse (who is called Ernie) refused to joust because he was tired and grumpy, enabling Lady Blanket to surge full-bonkers down the length of the lists and ping Sir Percy twenty feet through the air. He landed right next to my throne, bless him. I’d have helped him upright but he was already unconscious so I thought it best to let him rest.
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