It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Blisters!

And so, gentle reader(s), another year hauls itself exhaustedly across the temporal finishing line, looking for a chair in which to sit and a large tankard of port to blot out the previous twelve months. One way of improving the end to this difficult year, of course, would be to visit Prince Rupprecht of Saukopf-Bachsucttel, said no one ever.

Rupprecht is in one of his fine carriages, making his way back to his palace through the snowy, ill-lit, evening streets of  Pfeildorf. He is at this very moment making one of his more philosophical festive observations to his chancellor, Leopold von Fecklenburg.

'You can shove Christmas up your fundament, Fecklenburg - for I shall have no more of it!'. The prince holds a kerchief to his face and moans.

'I did say, my lord, that proposing at the opera in public to the actress Lotta Klap was a bad idea'.

'But it's Christmas', says Rupprecht, 'and I wanted to pull a cracker! Why would she turn me down?'

'Well, sire, you are, of course, already married. And she's met you, which is another problem. And also, her family were against the union'.

'Her father? I could buy him off'.

'No sire, her husband and children'.

'She threw a cup of hot punch over me!' wails the prince. 'I shall be scorched and maimed beyond the recognition of my own mother!'

'Your mother is mad, my lord and so already cannot reliably distinguish you from an Italianate inlaid wardrobe'.

'Nonsense, Fecklenburg: only poor people are mad: my mother is merely eccentric'.

'The symptoms are quite severe, lord: she talks to the Christmas trees, wears lampshades, and also thinks that you are the very paragon of an able enlightenment ruler'.

'Well, Lotta has really been unreasonable'. He removes the kerchief and experimentally pushes some of the blotches on his face. 'Ow! See how she has disfigured me, Fecklenburg! I am a burned, blistered grotesque!'

'She threw the beverage over your crotch, my lord'.

'Really?' Rupprecht considers this for a moment, then grabs the front of his britches and howls.

'Maimed! Maimed! Christmas maiming! It's so unfair - what did I do wrong, Fecklenburg?'

 'Perhaps, sire, you might work on your amorous repartee. It is ...', Fecklenburg searches for another way of saying  "illegal", "actionable", and "immoral". 'It is ... sub-optimal'.

'But I'm brilliantly witty, chamberlain - everybody says so'.

'Everybody afraid of execution, sire'.

'Well, what did I say to Lotta?'

'You wished her a merry Christmas, sire ...'

'A good start, I think ...'

'Yes, sire, and you then pulled open your britches and said "You can feel what's in my stocking if you like, mistress, or perhaps you'd like to admire my baubles.'

Rupprecht considers this for a moment. 'I was young and reckless, then, Fecklenburg. I believe that I have matured'.

'It was literally twenty minutes ago, sire. And her husband then wished to duel with you, which is why we had to leave'.

'Did I accept the challenge?'

'Again, sire, literally twenty minutes ago. No, my lord, whilst you might honestly have wanted to say "Poltroon! I shall accept your challenge and see you upon the field of dispute at dawn", what you actually said was "Ooooh, I've been naughty! Take me to horny jail straight away!'''

'Horny jail', says Rupprecht flatly.

'Straight away', adds Fecklenburg.

Rupprecht blows a raspberry. 'But everyone always says that in talking to women one should just be oneself'.

'Oh no, sir, for you that is a very bad idea. Have you thought about being someone else, instead?'

'What, like Martin Luther?'
'Oh no, sire, Luther was notoriously dull at parties. His stories about eating worms were simply embarrassing. Perhaps rather than being yourself, you should try and be someone who is thoughtful, emotionally intelligent, and a good listener?'
'Attila the Hun?'

'Not the first name that leaps to mind, sire, or, to be honest, the thousandth; but, on the plus side, I have never read that the bestial Hun Attila ever ended up in horny jail. So there's that'.

There is a moment of silence.

'This coach is travelling quite fast, Fecklenburg' pipes up the prince.

'Indeed, sire. Driver! Slow this carriage!' shouts the chamberlain, thumping the roof of the coach.

From outside, above the creaking of the wheels, there comes a chittering shriek. The coach speeds up.

'You know, he didn't look like my usual coachman', says Rupprecht, raising his voice above the hubbub.

'How so, sire', says the chamberlain suspiciously.

'Well, he was shorter, and hairier, and much more talkative'.

'Short and hairy', says Fecklenburg alarm in his voice. 'He wasn't covered in lard was he, sire ...'

'Well now, come to think of it ...'

As the prince and his chamberlain speed dangerously towards the unknown, may we here at this modest publication take an opportunity to wish you a Merry Christmas and the most happy of New Years!