She's yonge, she's sexie, she's riche: Interviewe wyth Parys

Philippa hath pleadede for manye a daye that ich fynde a waye to brynge in more cash. The house in Kente ys trewelye a ‘fixere-uppere’ and a growthe spurte semeth to haue ycome to litel Lowys, for he devoureth al the mete and drinke so that the reste of my meynee kan scarce fynde a morsel or a droppe. The office of Justice of the Pees is right honourable, but it bringeth in litel or no income. 

Ich haue alwey thoghte myself to be a writer, so ich shal attempte to take on sum freelaunce worke. Syn ich do knowe manye a noble lord and ladye, ich shal write articles for chronicles of societee and fashioun. Here ys my firste attempte. A fayre ladye of courte dide journeye to Kente with her retinue, and Philippa managid to score me sum interviewe tyme. May it plese ye gentil folke to correcte eny mistakes heere, and then ich shalle sende it off to ‘mademoiselle’ or ‘vogue’ or peraventure ‘puple’....

PARYS LAUNCECRONA nedeth nat an introduccioun to gentil folke – but ye churles who lyve in smal holes and knowe nat of societee, knowe that Parys beth the daughter of an riche stewarde and hosteler of Boheme, who dide yplace her yn the courte of Anne of Bohemia. Syn gode Queene Anne hath come to Englande to wedde Kyng Richarde, Parys hath ben the talke of Londoun. The merchant Nichol Brembre hath seyde that ‘a feeste withoute Paris ys lyk a Lombard wythout redy cash.’ And the very paragon of fashion Michael de la Pole did recentlie remarke: ‘Yt maketh litel difference if we winne Fraunce, for mooste of vs haue alredy taken Parys.’ The croniclez do reporte that she hath been sene ycanoodlinge with no lessere a lemman than Robert de Vere, the hippe, yonge favourite of Kyng Richarde and of late the Marquis of Ireland (and eek, o scandale! a man yweddede to a grand-dogther of grete King Edward).

Galfridus Chaucer: Thou waitest upon-

Parys Launcecrona: Ye –

GC: Ich do begge pardon. Ye waite upon Gode Queene Anne, yet ye do manye othir projectes. How wolde ye descriven yower crafte and place in societee?

PL: ‘Tis harde to saye. Lyk, ich am a woman of businesse, ich am an actresse, ich do inspyre men of chivalrie to noble deedes, ich do founde chantries ful of preestes who praye for the soule of my chihuahua who of late did perisshe.

GC: Telle me aboute a daye yn the lyfe of Parys Launcecrona.

PL: Ywis, Y do rise from my bowere and do washe myn selfe, and then, lyk, Y throwe the watir doun to the strete for to coole the browes of poore men and labourers. For Y am lyk alle aboute the charitee. Then Y do haue meetynges. Y do pose for peyntures for advertisementes or woodcuttes for croniclez, or Y do planne the newe seson for my showe of televisione...

GC: ‘The Lyf Symple?’

PL: The same. This seson we shalle go to a poore village the which hath had manye a yeere of dearth. And oure retinue shal lyk buye uppe al of ther beestes and corne that yet remayne, and we shal feaste vs fyne and passinge wel vpon those provisounes, and thenne we shalle mock the peasantz for their churlishe wayes as al the while hunger and nede do dryve them to desperacioun. We shal lyk make manye japes and jokes about the rough and foule visages of the peasantz, the whiche do shewe that thes churlez aren descendid from the lessir son of Noah and aren righftulli oure servaunts and we rightfulli the maysters. And yt shal be a rockinge good tyme wyth bikinis and sum hotte fashiones and mowre cleavage than thou kanst shoot a trebuchet at.

GC: And wher shal thys seson be yfilmed?

PL: The laste two seasonses we haue done yn Engelonde, but this oon shal be in Somerset.

GC: Do ye rede of the broadsheetes and the chroniclez to see what ys written of yow?

PL: Sum tyme if a chronicle hath an illuminacioun, Y wil chekke it oute to see how cute Y looke. But mooste of that writynge ys so smal and hard to rede. Thes clerkes and writeres and makeres of poesie aren such losers. Y do haue much hatrede in my herte for thos folke who lyk sitte as stoones lyk al daye and al nighte for to write of riche and noble lyves that thei shal nevir haue. Thei aren alle probablie custoum house officiales or sum thynge!

GC: Do ye rede of blogges?

PL: Y do nat wante to get too close or Y mighte falle in.

GC: Whate saye ye?

PL: Y do not wante to falle in the blogge. Also, blogges smelle nastie. And ful oft ther ys sum Pict at the bottom of the blogge who is all lyk mummifiede.

GC: What occupacioun dide ye dreme of whanne ye were a yonge girle?

PL: Saynte. Kanst thou beleve yt? Y totallye wantede to be a saynte. But thenne Y dide discouer that seyntez aren supposid to yive up the worlde and to spende their lives in werkes of devocioun and charitee. And so Y thoghte: ‘that sucketh’ and Y decidede to be riche insteade. So nowe Y haue bought manye a beggare, who Y do feede at my cost, and eftimes Y do commaunde them to thanke and prayse me so that Y feele lyk a seynte - but Y kan yet swyve and drynke depe of wyn and snorte the poudre of cockayne, the whiche no Seyntez do. For telle me, litel man, who beth the patron seynt of cocayne?

GC: Ther beth none, my ladye.

PL: Exactemundo, Jeffie.

GC: Nowe ich am goynge to seye a fewe wordes, and yf it plese ye, ye maye responde wyth the firste thynge that cometh yn to yower hede whanne ye heare the worde that ich saye.

PL: Okaye, go for yt.

GC: The Black Deeth?

PL: Bad skin. Lyk, thank Godde they dye bifor it gets worse.

GC: Chivalrie?

PL: Hotte dudes killinge ech othir.

GC: Kyng Richarde?

PL: Y wolde kille to haue hys makeup artiste.

GC: Professirs of literature?

PL: Vntil they owene up to havynge no ethical use, ich shal nat respecte them.

GC: Confessioun?

PL: Hotness. My friare-confessour is sooo hotte. Lyk, he beth so hotte that thou nedest to put fowere of the letter t in ‘hotttte.’ Nay, more. Adam Pinkhurste kan nat make a fancie-enow lookynge ‘t’ to convey the temperature of thys franciscan. Caxton hath not t’s enow in hys case of lettres to shewe how hot this friare ys. His in principio is insayne! O, pardon! Ich was so distractede. Ich lyk totallie lost myselfe. Hastow anothir worde for me, man?

GC: Nay, me thinketh that ys good enogh. Nevir in this interview haue ye been more wel spokene than yn this descrivynge of yower confessour. Now ich wolde aske of yower grete fame. Manye a yonge ladye both noble born and lowe doth stryve to emulate yow in dresse and manner, and manye a yonge manne of all estates doth wisshe ferventlye that yow were hys paramour. Why are ye so popular? What do ye thynke ys yower appeale?

PL: Y am lyk a princesse.

GC: And yet with al respecte, thou –

PL: Ye.

GC: Ye come nat of blood royale...

PL: Silence, churl! Thinkstow that hath eny bearynge? Yt ys all aboute whate peple weare and who they knowe. Ther aren no divisions eny more. Hastow nat rede that tradiciounal feudal bondes aren breakynge doun yn to a cashe economy? It usid to be lyk ‘those who pray, those who fight, and those who werke’ – but nowe yt ys lyk, ‘those who werke...and me.’

(at this tyme two large knightez of Paryses retinue dide haule me off by my shouldres. rederes kan offir sum solace for my bruised armes by sendynge in entries for the photographie conteste)