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1:55 pm
July 2, 2011
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I love writing serious stories about historical figures such as Anne, but I also enjoy writing spoofs that poke fun of the ridiculous way these people are often depicted by TV and historical fiction, for instance…
1. Anne being made out to be totally evil and murderous
2. George being cruel to his wife
3. George and Anne committing incest
etc… I could go on! Such writing trends should be made fun of, so here, for your enjoyment, is a spoof I recently wrote entitled “Spending time with the family”! My intention isn't too offend, but hopefully to make you laugh =D btw, a while ago I read some spoofs on the main site by an anonymous visitor, and I absolutely loved 'em; whoever wrote them, massive kudos to you, because they rocked! I only hope mine is half as good =)
~~~
“Anne?” George sounded thoughtful as he observed his sister peering into her looking glass. As she did every morning, Anne was filing down the large, devilish-looking horns protruding out of her head. Every night they grew back again, so this particular ritual annoyed Anne tremendously – as did almost everyone and everything, in fact, since she had such a homicidal temper. The concept of “being nice” was entirely alien to her.
“Yes, Georgie?” she enquired, brushing down her hair. George cleared his throat, and answered her delicately, not wishing her to throw a heavy object at him.
“I was just wondering, what exactly is the source of your hatred for our sister Mary? It’s just that last night when you embarked on your top secret mission to kidnap her son, you kind of acted as if you were doing it out of cruelty.” George flinched as Anne’s expression took on a creepily unhinged edge, and she flexed her various fingers with a large crack.
“I had a feeling you’d want to talk about this,” she said in ominous tones, turning away from the looking glass. Just at that moment, George saw that her velvet green gown was painstakingly embroidered with the words “die Mary”. He had to admit, it was mightily good embroidery. “The truth is, George, I really, really hate Mary.”
“Yeah, I kinda gathered that.”
“It’s all because I’m insanely jealous of her, you see. She’s far more beautiful than me, and blonde, and milky-skinned, and fertile. I want everything she has. That’s why I kidnapped young Henry last night and locked him in the Tower,” Anne confided, poking the large, protruding wart on her neck. She began to itch it frantically. “Out, damned spot!” After a few moments, she ceased scratching. “Gonna have to get that surgically removed, by the way. Horns and ten extra fingers are one thing, moles are quite another.”
Anne brushed down her skirts, and admired the jeweled girdle clasped about her waist, on the end of which was a silver model of Mary’s decapitated head. “I’m just an all-round horrible person really, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever,” she continued, returning to the original topic of conversation. “But hey, we’ve all got our flaws! I mean look at you! Don’t think we haven’t noticed how you smack your wife around!” she chuckled fondly.
George immediately brushed bright red. “Well, so would you if you had a wife who poked through your stuff all the time and was generally a nutcase,” he defended himself.
“The word around court is that you also like boys,” Anne said.
“Who told you that?” George demanded.
“Everyone’s saying it. They’re also saying that you like locking young men up in cupboards with marmalade.” Anne smirked.
“Hang on, it’s you who does that, not me, you perverse witch!” George cried.
“That’s simply not true,” Anne insisted. “I lock them up with jam.”
Just at that moment, the door of Anne’s bedchamber flew open and in strode Thomas Boleyn, George and Anne’s father. It didn’t escape either of his children’s notice that today he was wearing a large crown with the letters “Pimp Daddy” spelled out in diamonds. “Hey, dad,” Anne greeted him. “Nice crown. Uncle Norfolk is gonna be jealous as heck, seeing as he sees himself a cut above us lot.”
Thomas replied by punching her on the chin. “Why aren’t you pregnant yet?” he shouted.
From the corner her father had knocked her into, Anne replied, “don’t ask me! I’ve been taking all these potions to make me pregnant but they’re not working! I’ve also sacrificed several sheep to the devil, but to no avail.”
“Those poor sheep will not have died in vain,” George said. “We do have one last resort, Anne. If worst comes to worst I’ll get you pregnant.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Anne agreed, shifting herself to her feet. “After all, what could be more natural?”
“Quite so,” Thomas said, staring fixedly at Anne’s flat non-pregnant belly, before picking up her hairbrush from the dressing table. He smacked it on the palm of his hand several times, before proceeding to batter George over the shoulder with it. “But I say if it’s going to be done, get it done quickly, boy! You’ve got no backbone, that’s what’s wrong with you! You should be getting your sister pregnant now, not later!”
George cowered away from his father. “Okay, okay! Tonight, I promise!”
“Not tonight,” Anne intervened. “I’ve got to buy some more jam tonight from that creepy old lady, I’m running out.”
“You eat JAM? You make me sick,” Thomas shouted.
All of a sudden, in through the bedroom door charged Mary Boleyn and Jane Boleyn, George’s wife. Catching sight of Mary, Anne’s devil horns suddenly sprung up out of her head again, and she hissed like a cat.
“Someone’s got to sort this nutter out,” Mary yelled, pointing at Jane. “She keeps hanging around outside my room with a dodgy look on her face.”
“She probably wants to steal all your jewels, Mary,” George informed her. “Jane, like all villains, is a kleptomaniac.”
“Mary has jewels?” Anne glared. “I want ‘em.”
“I’m not a thief!” Jane objected. George took the hairbrush from his father and struck her over the head with it repeatedly.
“A likely story, you maniac!” he growled.
Anne suddenly leapt at Mary and rugby tackled her to the floor with a yell that was a cross between a banshee shriek and a warcry, scratching at her face. Mary yelped and grabbed her father’s legs, crying for help. Thomas simply kicked her away and tried to grab the hairbrush back from George, who shoved him out of his way, preoccupied with beating Jane. Thomas got toppled to the ground, and landed on top of his daughters, putting to an end their scrap.
“That’s it!” he shouted in an outrage, scrambling to his feet and brushing down his long, evil-looking black robes. A red devil’s tail poked out at the back, swishing around in irritation. “God’s blood, this family!” he pointed a finger at George. “If Anne isn’t pregnant by tea time tonight, I’ll be having words with you, mister!”
“I already told you, I can’t get pregnant tonight,” Anne complained. “I’ll be busy getting jam and accosting young men!”
“Ooh, that’s a handy bit of information,” Jane said. “I’ll remember that.”
“No you won’t!” George lifted the hairbrush threateningly, and Jane backed away, fearing another battering.
Mary had no chance to witness any of the uproar, since she’d been knocked unconscious. Anne took the chance to steal her pearl necklace and stuff it into one of her gown pockets.
“Put Mary somewhere else, would you George?” Thomas said, regarding his daughter in disgust. “I do so hate it when people slouch and clutter up the place, making it look ill-kept.”
Obediently, George threw Mary over his shoulder and approached the door. “See you tonight, Anne!” he called, as he went. “Remember, you’re more likely to have a child by me than young Mark!”
Jane followed George out of the room with one of her best shifty looks. Thomas closed the door behind them. A few moments later, a screech of pain could be heard out in the corridor.
“I guess George slapped her about again,” Anne mused, stating the obvious.
“She’s not the only one who’ll get slapped about if you don’t have a baby soon,” Thomas threatened.
“How come your fatherly love isn’t unconditional?” Anne asked him.
“Fatherly love? WHAT fatherly love?” Thomas demanded, unable to believe his ears. A second later, a large black hole opened up under his feet and he burst into flames.
Anne stared at the space where her father had been standing for one moment, before turning away and retrieving her hairbrush from where George had dropped it onto the floor. “Guess dad’s gone to have a bit of a pray, then. He’s not a bad old stick, besides being inherently evil and so forth,” she said, strolling back towards her looking glass. “Who am I to judge? I’m evil too, so long as no one was forgetting that crucial plot point!” A scowl took hold of her features as she was reminded of the large horns sticking out of her head.
“RIGHT!” she said, picking up a pair of pliers and simply chopping the horns off.
THE END
12:52 am
July 17, 2011
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Hahaha that was fab! Really enjoyed that.
'If honour were profitable, everybody would be honourable' Thomas More
5:10 am
April 9, 2011
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That was impressive, I laughed out loud a number of times. Well done!
9:11 am
May 19, 2011
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Smack ma bitch up… should be the theme song! Awesome!
"A fresh young damsel, who could trip and go"
4:37 pm
February 10, 2010
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Can we have episode 2 please? CoA and JS with haloes and Henry chucking chicken drumsticks around and spending all of his time interviewing executioners while talking about what a great composer, war leader, theologian, law-maker (I'm sure I've forgotten some) he is.
8:05 am
October 17, 2011
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lol thats so funny you should write a book a satire of the Boleyns maybe At home with the Boleyns enjoyed it very much
6:38 pm
July 2, 2011
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Thank you so much for your comments, guys =D I’m glad you liked it! I haven’t been around the forum for a while, but I’ve now returned with a new spoof, and I hope you enjoy it =) xxx
~~~
Part 2 – Shenanigans and Intrigues
“So, do you like my new gown, Crommy? Isn’t it absolutely perfect for the masque?” Anne spun around gleefully so that her damask skirts billowed and the human teeth stitched into the embroidery gently chimed. Cromwell stood back politely, nodding and trying to appear impressed whilst Anne struck poses, turning herself this way and that and tilting her head. “But it needs something more, don’t you think? That lovely finishing touch that says ‘I’m a cold-blooded murderer’ but at the same time ‘I’m as fertile as a milkmaid’.”
“Oh, but of course! Might I be so bold as to suggest a headdress made of the head of your arch nemesis?” Cromwell suggested, with an ingratiating smile. Anne tittered, picking up a flan and fluttering it becomingly.
“Silly Crommy, I can’t wear that! Your head’s still quite firmly on your shoulders!” she winked at him.
Cromwell joined in the laughter, trying to conceal the devious look that sneaked fleetingly across his features. “Ha ha ha ha! Oh, my dear queen, you are quite remarkable the way you make me laugh,” he said with an affected air of jollity. “But I’m afraid I have important business to attend to, so I must be going, as much as it pains me to say.”
“Crommy!” Anne placed her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You’re not leaving! You’ve still got to lace my dress up at the back!”
“Er, can’t one of your maids do it?”
“My maid’s busy. Well, I say busy. She’s on a small holiday. Well, I say holiday… actually, she’s dead. In short, I killed her. She set out the wrong pair of shoes for me this morning so I threw her out of a window,” Anne said. “So can’t you do it? I’m sure you know your way around a woman’s gown!”
“I’m sure I do, but I’m afraid I just…”
“Alright, alright! Crisis averted!” In walked George Boleyn wearing an intriguing doublet stitched with the words, “Boleyn’s the name, incest’s my game”. Cromwell’s eyebrows shot upwards, and he watched as George indicated that Anne should turn round so that he could lace her up.
“I’ll have this done in a shake of a lamb’s tail,” he announced, drawing the laces. He glanced towards Cromwell with a grin. “Hiya Crom-crom! You attending the masque as well? I hope you’ll be wearing something more exciting that that!”
Cromwell looked down at his robes of plain black. “I don’t care to make a fuss, George.” He paused. “Unlike some people,” he added in an undertone.
“That’s all very well, but you’ll never impress anyone if you go around looking like a boring office clerk all the time! What YOU need is a little fashion advice from Auntie George. Isn’t that right, Anne?”
~~~
Half an hour later, Cromwell was wearing a plush red hat adorned with a white feather, perched at a jaunty angle on his head. This, however, was only the tip of the iceberg. George had dressed him in Anne’s red velvet dress, the one she’d worn when crowned Marquess of Pembroke. Anne herself sat on the end of her bed, watching Cromwell’s makeover as if it was a spectator sport. George applied glittery mascara to the secretary’s eyelashes and annointed his cheekbones with blusher, before stepping back with a pleased smile.
“There we go!” he declared. “You’ll be the Belle of the ball!”
Cromwell grinned painfully, trying to restrain himself from throttling George to death. “Oh, thank you, so, so… much,” he said with difficulty. “One of these days I will kill you. Um, um, I mean, one of these days I will repay your kindness.”
“Perhaps you can do so by telling the king that I really should be made a knight of the Garter sometime soon?” George suggested cheerfully. “Dear Anne’s tried dropping hints to that effect, but he’s not picked up on them.”
“Oh yeah! Good idea. Really good idea. Now I must dash. I’ve got paperwork… stuff… to attend to…” Cromwell shuffled off, nodding as George and Anne waved at him. He maneuvered himself along the corridor, struggling to walk in Anne’s high heels. “I know what I’ll do,” he muttered to himself with an evil smile, trying to ignore Mark Smeaton winking suggestively at him as he strolled past towards the queen’s bedroom. “I think I’ll tell the king that it’s about time Edward Seymour was made a knight of the Garter. Poor bloke deserves a break. I’ll be the Pope’s footrest if that idiot George wears the Garter!”
~~~
“And so I told the king of France, what I don’t know about women isn’t worth knowing!” Good old king Hal chortled, his great belly of jelly jiggling as he did so. The throng of courtiers surrounding him laughed as if he’d made the most hilarious jest ever, and the girl sitting on his vast lap gazed in adoration at him. “The disease-ridden French king is no contest for me! I am an Adonis amongst men! Aren’t I?” He flexed his arms, and his doublet strained at the seams. “Just look how lean and fit and muscular I am…” Just at that moment, the doors of the great hall were flung open, and Anne’s presence was announced.
“The Concubine!” cried the king’s herald. “Er, er, I mean the Queen!”
“That’s better!” Anne punched him between the legs, and he yelled in pain, crumpling to the floor with an agonized expression as Anne walked past.
“Ah, here she is,” shouted the king. “My lovely little wifey. Barren as a barrel of rotten fish, god bless her. Come over here and sit on my knee.”
“It’s already occupied.” Anne glared at the girl in question and reached into her gown pocket, removing a leather glove. Striding towards the dais, she wielded the glove and thwacked it across her adversary’s face with a sharp slap. There was a collective gasp from the court as Anne made her challenge.
“I demand satisfaction,” she announced. “This being such, I challenge you to a duel, madam. Will you accept my challenge or are you a coward as well as a strumpet of the highest order?”
“Ooh, a girl fight!” cried Francis Bryan from the sidelines, adjusting his eye patch, which was studded with diamante. “Being a sleaze, I love this kind of thing!” He wrapped an arm around Cromwell’s waist and leered at him. “This is just my opinion, but I think you should join in.”
Cromwell pushed him away, appalled. “Bryan! It’s me, Cromwell!” he hissed. Francis’s jaw dropped, and his eye patch promptly fell off in shock.
“I had no idea you made such a convincing woman,” he said weakly.
“Neither did I!” Mark Smeaton appeared at Cromwell’s side, waggling his eyebrows. Cromwell turned very pale and attempted to edge away.
~~~
“God’s blood, how many of these scraggy mistresses do I have to deal with?” Anne demanded, flopping down onto her bed. She was sporting several battle scars, and her nose looked as if it was broken. “This one may be dead but there’ll just be another one to replace her. Whoever next?”
“The best way to be sure of your safety is to employ someone you trust to be the king’s mistress,” George informed her, removing her blood-soaked shoes. “Perhaps Granny Boleyn would be a safe bet? She’ll do anything for food and a place to sleep, you know.”
“You know, I’ll write and ask her! A few thick veils will cover up the wrinkles. Henry will never be any the wiser.”
Suddenly, there was a knocking noise from inside the cupboard. Anne rolled her eyes. “Let him out,” she said. George nodded and opened the cupboard doors. Surprisingly, instead of Mark standing there, in his place stood, of all people, George’s troublesome wife Jane.
“Jane!” George thundered. “What on earth are YOU doing in the cupboard?”
“Um…” Jane shifted from foot to foot. “Spying. Eavesdropping on your conversations. The usual. But I started to suffocate slightly in there! Worst spying place ever! I think I’ll stick to looking through keyholes in future…”
“Get rid of her, Georgie,” Anne interrupted, examining her lopsided nose in a pocket mirror. George shoved Jane towards the door; upon opening it, he saw Mark waiting outside, with Henry Norris in tow.
“Why weren’t you in the cupboard?” George demanded. “And what’s Norris doing with you?”
“Funny story,” Norris replied helpfully, “today I thought to myself, ‘you know, Henry, you’re a clever guy. You could really get somewhere in life. So why not formulate a cunning plot to get rid of the king and marry his wife?’ I was talking to Mark about it and he suggested I mention it to the queen, to see what she thinks.”
“Alright, alright,” George said. He let Norris and Mark into the room, closing the door behind them before grabbing hold of Jane’s arm. “I’m afraid, Jane, that I’m gonna have to beat you senseless to make you forget everything that you just heard.”
“I expected no less,” Jane said, downtrodden. “But don’t take too long. Cromwell asked to see me and I can’t keep him waiting.”
“What would Cromwell want to talk to you about?” George asked, looking suspicious. Jane flushed bright red.
“Oh, nothing. Not plotting… or anything… no evil plots or intentions… nothing like that…”
George narrowed his eyes. “There’s something going on here, isn’t there? I knew it! I knew Cromwell had been acting weird lately.”
“Well, you did dress him up as a woman,” Jane said. “That annoyed him quite a bit.”
“No, before that too. I’d been thinking that he just had PMS, but it seems to me there’s something more sinister at work here. And if you’re involved, there’s no doubt at all. Now, this is what we going to do, and if you don’t comply with my wishes I will feed you to Uncle Norfolk, who has a taste for human flesh of late. You are going to hide me in a cupboard in Cromwell’s room…”
“What is it with you and cupboards?”
“They come in useful! Now, shut up and listen! I will hide in a cupboard so that I can hear everything that he says whilst you two are chatting. You will prompt him to talk about any evil plots he has up his sleeve. If he’s working against the family then I have to know!”
“And then?”
“And then, I will destroy him.” George’s eyes gleamed with plotting. “He won’t stay secretary for long when my work is done.”
“How will you do it? You’re a brainless idiot, interested only in fashion and incest, remember?” Jane said. George replied by rolling his eyes and slapping her. “Owww!” she screeched. They walked along the corridor in single file to make room for the army of young men jogging in the direction of Anne’s bedroom, herded by Thomas Boleyn, who was cracking a whip.
“Hi dad,” George called over his shoulder. When no reply came George shrugged and glanced at Jane. “He’s a busy man, my good old dad. Always intent upon improving the family business.”
“Family business?” Jane said. “You mean pimping?”
“Pimping IS a business, Jane, and I won’t hear anyone say otherwise.”
“What’s next? Selling drugs, I suppose?”
George remained silent, and with a look of the utmost shiftiness, adjusted his doublet slightly. As they walked along, a few bags of green substance fell out of his sleeves, dropping down onto the rushes on the floor.
TO BE CONTINUED…
