To know what happened previously on Chronicles of the Cannon
The Duke and his men travelled to Fulham. It was only a few miles away. The fumblers of Fulham already heard word about the Arsenalian army approaching…
Chief Fumbler Jol: Aye! The army of the Ashburtonshire dude approach-eth!
The fumblers of Fulham fought, yes, they did fight hard.
And in the heat of the battle, Lord Giroud sees his chest hair was a bit out of place. So he tells his armour bearer to hold up his shiny, mirrored shield so he can put it right back in place…
Lord Giroud: Amour bearer dude, move the shield a bit to the left…no, that’s too far left, move it a bit to the right…yes… Hmm…seems my man-boobs look bigger than they are in this mirror, I have to stop eating Madame Rene’s soufflé.
Lord Artets fighting turns around to see Lord Giroud checking out his biceps in the reflection of his shield…
Lord Artets: What the… Lord Giroud!!! We’re in the heat of battle and you check your muscles!?!!
Now, Lord Giroud, ashamed, fidgets and his sword falls on his right foot. Ouch! He sees red and bleed-hops to the infirmary.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Sorcerer Ferguman pulled the strings. I hath to give-th it to him, he has shewn how ridiculously cunning he is. The wily old sorcerer. He jinxed all the guards of the Sheik from the far Middle-East and stole the Poppadum Le Tuscany (Premier League Title) right from mobster Mancini’s undergarment bag, Victoria Secret to be exact (you know how fashion forward these Italian men can be *wink*). Now Mancini was really going to be decapitated for sure.
Back at the battle front, the knights exhausted…
Lord Wilshere: Lord Mert (hyperventilating) thank you brother…thank you for saving the day. Never again will I call you a humourless giant of a German.
Lord Mert: Goot, goot.
Lord Walcott: What has become of the rest of the fumblers?
Lord Wilshere: They’ve run behind their walls and locked the gates of the Craven Cottage.
Forgive my ignorance but for the first time, I checked the synonyms associated with the word – Craven; here goes – cowardly, gutless, spineless, weak, fearful and lily-livered… err…so why would you name your palace craven cottage?
-End of Aside-
Lord Artets: We’ll take that as victory then. They’ll start to pay their taxes once more.
Duke Wenger: Very well, let’s head back home.
And as they approach the palace Emiratia, they see that there’s an on-going preparation for a ceremony…
Duke Wenger: What is this I see?
Lord Artets: Si, what celebration is this for?
They enter the palace… Lord Ox’s face is grim.
Lord Wilshere: Ox, what’s the matter? What’s celebration are we preparing for? Is it our victory against the fumblers of Fulham?
Lord Ox: No Jack, it’s the King. He says Arsenalia is to confer on our former brother Judas-is-van Persie and the sorcerer’s henchmen the title of ‘Guard of Honour’.
All the Knights: What the…!
Lord Ox: My thoughts exactly.
Lord Santi: (Almost in tears) Puedes por favour explicar esto? Can you please explain this? Are you Arsenalians…how they say…nuts?
The Duke is silent
Lord Artets: Duke, say something! I’m not going to stand for this, not one bit of my perfectly gelled hair would stand up for this!
Duke Wenger: (Unsmiling). It’s tradition. There’s nothing we can do about it. When the province with the most power and control visits Arsenalia, it is gifted the Guard of Honour.
Lord Gerv: Whot! Jost becoz dey hav pahwah dohzent mayk it good tradishon. (What! Just because they have power doesn’t make it good tradition). In Africa, the killing of twins was tradition, now it’s been scrapped, if you get what I mean…
Duke Wenger: Hmm…
And all eyes turned to the tower from whence I write the Chronicles I deliver unto thee weekly.
I, Monsieur Spruce, who had been conferred the title of the Chancellor of the Order of the Cannon, took it upon myself to make the scumbag pay. If you can’t beat all, beat some. More precisely, beat one.
He would not leave our walls with a silly smile upon his slimy – sorcerer pinched face. I made sure of that.
The temporary foolishness of tradition sought to be upheld by the sheer naivety of our King go-est not forth without consequences and repercussions.
I had with me some devil beans, worse than poison ivy. *Evil grin*
I snuck into the room which held the cloak of the Guard of Honour set for Judas-is-van Persie (In my chronicles, the guard of honour involves robbing the soldiers of the most powerful province, and no, I do not care one bit that I’m cooking this part up).
Armed with a bucket of devil beans soaked in hot water, I dipped the cloak right into that bucket and left it to set. I sat, waiting patiently. An hour later, I removed the cloak not with my bare hands, never! Insane, I’m not. I leave the cloak to dry.
Now, the ceremony requires the scum to pick up the cloak from the mantle which I kept it, tie it around his neck and tuck them into his breeches…
Oh, how he would itch.
Want to know what happened next? Watch this space…
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