guest blog by Chris King / @NorthernWrites
In the concluding part of The Tottenham Prophecy, Nostradamus leads us down an old familiar path where “wandering minstrels enchant us with songs of old – where towers once stood, before history was sold.”
It is the fourth month of the year of our Lord, Sir Bill Nicholson. The sap is rising across the village. Even crumbling towers do take on new life; new interests to the villagers below. The ass-men have woken from their winter hibernation – full of vim and desire to show, with one last hurrah, that they too could be proud cocks of note.
A harsh winter has condemned the village to remain, but the sixth tallest tower in the land. The knights, battle weary from the darkened months, see chance to redeem themselves out on the plains of their foes. First they travel to the land of Sunder, where no man will put our knights under. Blood does run the colour of their tunics as our knights slash through their defences. The village with the seventh highest tower has not looked further than at this point.
A flock of canaries does descend upon our village, only for the ass-men and the baby Jenas – who has risen from the dead (subs bench) – to shoot them down from the skies. No greater sight is it to see fine birds draped, lifeless across the grass as the knights do stand over them, shaking their battle tools until they are drained.
And so to the fields that once mocked the gods, where no grass covered their surface – only fibres made by the devil himself. The knights who do fight for the Queens are no match for this resurgent battle force. Cannons aim straight and true. Ass-men, Jermain of the Jews and Pav of the Romans do run amok as though skirmishes are but friendly in nature – where swords are as wooden as the opposition’s defences. Great fire comes from Jermain of the Jews – as he does once more call to the crusades in timely fashion. He will not fight in the east this summer. His days of crusading are long since past.
The Dictator is so pleased by what he sees that he does take counsel from his battle knights, before gathering sources close to the scribes in dwellings on the edge of the market square. There he sends whispers across the land, that the sun god’s position at the head of his army is secure for another battle season. The sun god does stride in to the market square and proclaim through the criers that he does love this village, and that he had never intended to travel with the crusades – accept when accompanying Lord Lineker and his band of jesters.
The battle of the Elders (FA Cup) does draw to an end, with but four villages fighting the good fight upon neutral soil. The Valiant Knight is found upon trusty steed and does take to battle against the advice of the men of magic. It is three long months since he has appeared in battle, though you could be forgiven for thinking that he was fighting just yesterday. He comes through unscathed, and then, upon dismounting loyal steed – he does trip over lowly ass-man and is rushed straight back to the sorcerers. Ass-man, the one named after carts so luxurious – is apologetic, yet is sent to market square to be flogged. The knights win this battle by three destroyed towers to one and proceed to final conflict – upon old familiar soil.
The final battle of the month is against no more than mere chicken farmers who offer no resistance. The race for the sixth highest tower is confirmed.
The final battle month of the fighting season holds only one true test. After beating the villainous villagers and the stuffed pigs of Egyptian rule, the knights do return to the market place, where they strike up song with wandering minstrels, two. On lute and harpsichord, Charles and David do sing tales of old – where man from Columbus Land does suffer convulsions of the lower extremities, knights do repeat the success of battles from but one year ago, and the gods do shine upon the village when one is scratched to confirm luck in the passing of the years. They sing new song of ass-men, of valiant knights, of the way the village does recover from the difficulties of the previous year – and of how the sun god did pay taxes on time to keep the elders happy.
The minstrels do lead procession of villagers and knights across the metropolis to where twin towers once stood. The sun god does look upon the gaudy basket of the elders and gives proclamation that, for today alone, no Is, Vs and Xs matter – only success upon the battlefield. He walks up to each knight and kisses them with warmth and compassion. He then turns to scribes and does say, that today will be the moment of his elevation back to the gods. The scribes do ready the cloak of purple. They also ready their knives – for no back is safe when the scribes have their doubts.
The Valiant knight tries to mount trusty steed, but finds he has neither the strength nor the conviction. Gaul-ass does try to help him, but in doing so does damage the Valiant knight further. Foul play is expected – he will be rightly dealt with – but not before final battle commences.
The proud cocks take to the field against knights from the united northern wetlands. The battle rages long and hard, until opposition knight of Spanish heritage, does spill cannon ball in front of his own, poorly defended tower. In what is to be his last attack as a proud cock, Jermain of the Jews rides with pace and bravery and does punish this mistake – firing cannon straight and true at the base of the tower. At first it appears as though foundations remain intact. Village elder, Webb, consults fellow elders on the edge of the battlefield, and does at once point back to the middle ground. Son of Fergu is outraged and does remonstrate with anyone who will listen. The fourth of the chosen elders is covered in bile, spittle and sap from the gum tree. His remonstrations are in vain, as with skirmishes resuming, Elder Webb watches as tower comes crashing to the ground – thus ending the battle season.
Dictator, sun god, villagers and knights all ride upon, or gather round cart of many levels. They proudly return back to the market square, with songs of the minstrels playing loud and true. Their success in that final battle has once again confirmed their ability to fight on foreign soils. An early start to the battle season will mean that those fighting in the crusades will have limited time to spend with loved ones where sand will meet the sea.
Not everyone will return to fight as a proud cock next battle season. Some, like the ass-men and the baby Jenas will be burnt at the steak. Others will find home in a new village, where they will have to grow to love their new tunics. The dictator and the sun god will argue over which knights to bring in – looking once more to the lands of Columbus, the Gauls, the Goths and the Romans – before finally agreeing to spend riches early this time. But that is for another scroll, another prophecy, another time.
For now, all that is left is a disclaimer. For this prophecy is only true if you want it to be so. It has been written in a time before the elder Bryan Swanson has access to magical horns and illuminated chalk boards. Before yellow rivers do flow with the names of knights who come and go; before Sheriff does proclaim that tax has been paid.
This is my word. This is our future.
Nostradamus, aged 54 and three quarters.
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