Hmm, that doesn’t sound like me. Maybe it wasn’t your mother after all. Plenty have traded on my reputation and I could certainly see why she would be annoyed if someone served her an inferior product.
Maybe it was your sister? I remember there was a trick she did with a bowl of figs.
What’s that, Señor Juan? I can’t hear you over the screams of your fellows on the coals. As the demons line up to bugger you with their red-hot members, you may distract yourself with this thought: as long as our names are remembered on Earth, we never truly die.
Certainly, in the evenings in Gwynedd, when the children have been sent to bed and the harps are tuned, The Ballad of Little Saucepan and Juan the Perverted is always a favourite. New verses are added with every generation, each more ribald than the last, and everyone joins in the chorus and bellows out, “Please, please, please, he was snivelling on his knees”.
Indeed, you have entered the language. To call someone a—well, the j-word—is an insult that can only be washed away with blood.
So, although your head has long since been shat out by crows, in a sense you are still immortal.
What an imagination! How you come up with these things I’ll never know, although I think we’ve found the perverted one (Juan?) in your family.
Anyway, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that my new digs are most comfortable, if a little cosy. I’ve already found the wine cellar, which has some fine vintages in it, and I’m thinking of installing a hot tub as soon as I can figure out the plumbing.
I remember… after years of roaming, I’d settled down in Malta. I loved it there. The beauty of sun and sea, the quiet pace of life in a small fishing village, and the food– the food was magnificent. I can still taste the pastizzi filled with soft ricotta cheese, and the savory fish stew aljotta, washed down with a nice tall mug of cisk straight from the brewer’s. It was a welcome respite from wandering and warfare.
But as always, things never stay quiet for long. The Ottomans’ shadow loomed over my peaceful island refuge. Unwilling to see my Maltese friends conquered and destroyed, I joined the forces of the Knights of Malta. That’s how I wound up at Fort St. Angelo during the Great Siege.
Regrettably, I also wound up a bit too close to one of the giant cannons defending the harbor from the invading Ottoman ships. I could hear nothing but the ringing in my ears as I staggered away from the concussion… and into the path of a fellow Immortal.
I could see his lips move, but I couldn’t make out what he was saying to me. He gestured repeatedly, his face becoming more and more agitated. But I was still dazed and could neither understand nor reply. In the end he made himself quite clear. The drawing of his sword was as loud as a shout.
As we got down to dueling, we seemed fairly evenly matched, trading blow for blow. But I gradually wore down my mysterious opponent. I was about to end the fight when a nearby sack of gunpowder caught fire. We both scrambled to avoid the imminent explosion. I managed to dive to safety, but in the process I lost track of my challenger. I think he might have fallen off the wall of the keep… I’m not sure. I never caught up with him again. I never even knew his name.
I’m a walking cautionary tale, I am.
Sometimes, I think I’m being me usual moderate, fun-lovin’ self.
But then I find out, some time after the fact, that I haven’t been quite so moderate as I’d led meself to believe.
I met this lovely French lass. You remember my weakness for French lassies. I thought maybe, behind her sweet, demure eyelashes, she might be interested.
Holy shit was I wrong. I barely escaped with my worthless life. I can’t remember exactly the last time I so completely misjudged someone’s intentions.
Wait, that’s not fair. I think… I think there’s a chance she’d have just ignored me if I… if I…
Aw, fuckin’ hell. What have I done?
Aengus and I started the evening in lightest of spirits.
But even I should know better than to be swingin’ an unfamiliar axe while I’m in me cups…
Yeah, mate. I started it. I never meant to. And by all rights, she should still be here, and I should be carried out in a couple of buckets.
The bartender’s working on a late night shift
Cheap bums and blondes and barmaids on a midnight drift.
And the dance band’s playing the same old slam
I’m sinking whiskey and you’re sipping fine wine
I don’t know what it is you’re trying to prove
Well it should be you but it’s me who can hardly move
And I’ve got my reputation lying on the line
Come on baby, be a good dog and help the blind
Oh won’t you carry me home
Won’t you carry me home
Won’t you carry me home
(like a truck, pick me up)
You ain’t no lady but you’ve sure got taste in men
That head of yours has got you by time and time again
My arms and legs are aching and my head’s about to blow
And your back’s been breakin’ and I’d hate to spoil the show
But I’ve just spent next weeks wages and I’m right out of coin
But you want more and it’s half past four and they want to close the joint
But we can’t afford a taxi, and it’s too late for the bus
But I’ve been told by friends of mine you’re someone I can trust
Carry me home
Oh won’t you carry me home
Ohh! Carry me home
(don’t let me lie here in all this beer)
You drank all your booze and half of mine
I’m bleary eyed and you’re waiting for the sunshine (to come and kill me)
Just like the man who threw me on the floor
Don’t matter, while I’m down here I might as well try and find the fucking door
Excuse me, have you seen it? it’s about this big
And have you got a plastic bag 'cause I’m gonna be sick
I’m dead drunk and heave’n hanging upside down
And you’re getting up and leaving, you think I’m gonna drown
Carry me home
Yeah won’t you carry me home
(I need your help)
Carry me home
Carry me home
Oh won’t you carry me home
Yeah carry me home
It seems like every 50 years or so I fall off the wall of some damn keep.
After Orleans, I found a safe job with the Knights in Malta. A cushy job. I was second drummer in the drum corps. You can’t move that many folks around a fort without two excellent drummers. They gave me bonus pay and bonus eats because I had a nice sword and a bit of swagger. I worked there for 5 years and never had to pull my sword. No one even knew it had a broken tip. I rarely use the blade, except occasionally to shave some of my undergrowth or to force fruits to surrender their goods.
Anyway, things came to a head when the cursed Ottomans came to take over my little share of paradise.
One evening , late at night, I was on my regular wall patrols and the guns were blaring. I had just started peeling a lemon with my sword when I saw a poor lass who seemed a bit stirred up from the commotion. I kept yelling at her to bend down and recenter her inner ear, but next thing I knew she was trying to take off mein kopf. I think she would have, too, if I hadn’t backed over that damned barrel and right over the side of the wall.
Lost my sword on the way down. Still haven’t found it. Picked up a nice knife that’s better for my purposes anyway. Never did find my way back in. I don’t know how they got anything done without the second drummer.
