Chaucer Sparkleth in the Sonne

Somer ys ygoon-out, singe “ah wel” at a resonable volume.

The world is chaungid overal, and al diminisheth and groweth scarce. The economique downturne hath growne into moore of an economique downfal. My Lord Kyng Richard hath – wyth peraventure a bit too much enthusiasme – made “deep cuttes” yn spendinge on the realme. He hath reducid the system of writs to two: a writ of “brybe” and a writ of “no brybe.” And eek he hath declarid that al royal statutes shal not be copyed on to parchement and read in the town square by sheriffs but rathir proclaimed on Twittre.

This use of Twittre for broadcastinge the lawes of Engelond may save parchement and moneye, but it hath causid sum confusion bycause My Lord the Kynge knoweth not much about hys Y-Phone. Exempli gratia, here are the Statute Tweetes of August:

@fishmongers_guild lower your pryces on halibut

@laborers calme down or els

@trentreznor I love yow. leave the woman with the weirde name and be my industrial gaveston

@the_realm ignore the last tweete

@the_realm seriousli, ignore it or suffir payne of deeth for tresoun

Along wyth the economie and the lawes of the realm, it semeth that my happynesse ytself hath taken a downturne. Synce I did from Vegas-ward return, withouten my anniversarie cuff-links, my deere wyf Philippa hath removid the pleasure of her compaigyne from me. Ywis, whanevir ich seeke to speke swete thinges to her, she semeth moore offendid than Margery Kempe at a Johneson and Johneson focus group (“no moore teeres”). Whan ich do pull mynself bedwards, she dooth litel but murmur a “hullo” and continueth to rede of hir teenage sparklie vampire love storie, Vespers. Thys oon tyme, ich startid to singe unto her and she seyde,“Geoff, thou art Clemence of Barking Up the Wronge Tree.”

What to do? A fortnight ago, ich did haue sum beeres wyth Tommy Vsk and he had sum ideas.

By the waye, let not the haterez convince yow otherwyse, gentil rederes, for the Uskster liveth yet. Yt is trewe that Dr. Hwaet did replace hym wyth a Cybermonk that knewe only how to walk and recite basic liturgical formulae, the which was beheadid wyth muchel effort and sum sparkes and crackles. It took XXX blowes of the swerd to sever the Cybermonk’s metal nekke. Vsk now traveleth wyth Dr. Hwaet and hys companioun Wat Tyler thurghout a multiverse designed by a Welshman. Fantastik!

So Dr. Hwaet came by in the TOWAERDES and dropped the Usk-dogg off for a while. Usk and I were in the garage havinge sum Molson longenekkes and I toold hym of Philippa’s coldnesse. And he seyd, “If she to thee ne do no daliaunce, thou shouldest considir hanging out moore wyth thy man-freendes.” He spak muchel to me of fisshing and eek of football and eek of a restaurant yclept “Owls” in which the comely serving wenches of do dress lyke Athena and haue fayr foreheads (at leest a spanne broad). And then he gave me a book.

Aftir he leeft, Ich did reede of the book, the which is yclept, The Bromance of the Rose. It ys writen by Judd Da Poitou, and featureth a Dreamer (Seth Rojean) that enterteth the fayre garden of the lord of pleasure. Yn this garden, the Dreamer looketh depe ynto the fountain of Narcissus, and in yts cristal watirs he seeth a fayre and delicaat Rose. The Rose ys also a woman bycause this ys an allegorie and allegories are lyk that. He falleth in love.

So the Dreamer loveth the Rose, but a numbir of evil allegorical figures appeare to nip the relaciounship in the bud. Daungier, Ful Schedule, Incompatible Musique Tastes, Office Gossip, and Uninformed Gender-Based Assumpciouns al rear their allegoricallye ugly heades. The Rose rejecteth the Dreamer and thus he ys in the dogge-house (yt is an allegorie so he actuallie ys in ther wyth the dogg).

At thys poynt in the Bromance of the Rose, the Rose pretty much disappeareth. The Dreamer doth seek the advice of Freend. The Freend taketh the dreamer to hys “man cave” and ther thei playen of electrique guitars and the Freend convinceth the dreamer that the Rose ys an inadequate substitute for male companie. The Rose ys forgotten, and the two men go to “Owls” and also Vegas and playen of pool and foozball and joustinge and chevissaunce. It was lyk the average afternoon at Henri Bolingbrokes house, but wyth fewer beheadinges.

Ich did stop readinge whan the Dreamer and the Freend went to the Russhe concert. Ich take but litel joie from prog rock, and Kevin de Smyth did thys maner of thing so much bettir backe yn the dayes of Good King Edward. Ich wente up to bedde and sadlie closid my eyes, while Philippa burned our beste candles readinge of teenage sparklie vampyres. She was already on to the next oon, Compline.

Tommy Vsk, for al of hys travel thurgh tyme and space, had whiffed on the adyvce front. So ich went back to basiques and chekked out a copye of The Art of Post-Courtlye Love. Yt did suggest that “A man sholde knowe those thinges that plese hys wyf.”

The oonly thyng that semeth to plese Philippa thes dayes are thos large bookes of teenage sparklie vampyre romaunce, so ich decyded to reade oon of them.

And knowe ye what, lordinges? Yt was actuallie pretty decent.

Sure, the prose kynd of maketh Dives et Pauper look lyk George Orwelle, but the storie pulleth me yn. Yt maketh me feele lyk Ich am XVtene agayne and “Just Lyk Hevene” hath come upon the radio. Once a goth, alweys a goth (Ich am talkinge to you, Spain).

In this fyne book of sparklie vampyres, Bella Cygne moveth from Essex to Yorkshyre to lyve with her fathir, who ys a sheriff and escheator. At a scole ful of recentlie coyned stereotypes, she witnesseth the fayre skyn and fashion-sprede slow-mocioun hotenesse of the Cu Chulainn clan, the which have all eaten long ago of the magical Irisshe Salmon of Really Good Hair (oon byte of this magical salmon and ye shal have good hair for evir). Aftir Bella doth see the hottest of the clan, Edward, stop a wagon wyth hys bare handes, fight off twentie churles, and brood so much he did make Angel look lyk Mister Rogeres, she doth realise that the Cu Chulainns are vampyres. But they are good vampyres, who drinke wyne. Ther is considerablie moore sexual tensioun than in Piers Plowman.

Yt is reallie very good. Ich did reade al of Vespers, right through to Compline and ich have just startid Matins. This ys absolutelie the beste teenage sparklie vampyre love storye ich haue evir reade. And the moore wondirful thing ys that Philippa hath seen me readinge and suggestid that we visit Yorkshyre together. Yt ys amazinge how much good a well-placid “I lyk watchinge you sleepe. Ich fynde it fascinatinge” can do.

Thys is a bandwagon the which ich wolde lyke to leap upon. Ich am thinkinge that I shal add a litel sparkle to that Tales of Canterburye projecte ich have been werkinge on for several yeeres nowe. Ich am now writing the recentlye-renamed Wyf of Bathory’s Prologue.

“Experience, though noon auctorite / Were in thys world were right enough for me / To knowe not to date a werewolf...”