Any Londoner will tell you that it is imperative to avoid Westminster late at night. It’s just not safe. After Big Ben has struck midnight a quieter, more sinister sound can be heard: The muttered vendettas and coarse oaths of Boudicca and her daughters.
I only ever cross the river at Blackfriars, giving old Boudicca a wide berth. We always seem to rub each other up the wrong way you see, especially when I am menstruating, which I am at the moment, thanks for asking. Unfortunately, last night, I needed to go to Big Ben (real name ‘the clock what is at the top of St Stephens Tower’) to tell the time. As I was craning my eyes upwards at the clock face (I always get too close) I politely turned deaf ears to Boudicca’s bitchy tirade. A nymph she called me. And then she said something about my looking like Nero’s mother, but I drew the line when she shouted “Claudius’ Whore!” in my direction.
“I know you are, I said you are, what am I?” I retorted (because I am good with hecklers).
This started quite a war of words. She told me I had all the personality of a faded mosaic, I countered that her fanny was like an aqueduct. It was harsh, but I was angry. She squealed that I stank like gladiator’s piss. I told her she should be ‘Iceni but not heard’ and this was both a great pun, and factually true her having been dead for near on 2000 years…she should shut the hell up. Unfortunately, this play on words was the last straw: Boudicca and her daughters flipped out and jumped off their carriage and started chasing me across Westminster Bridge. They are much bigger than me and I was scared so I did the only thing I could, I burnt all three of them down. Which was ironic.
I went home all ashy and hot handed and still not knowing what time it was. I had to go back to Westminster this morning and crane up at the massive clock once more. I realised I was late for work, but at least I was safe from that East Anglian cow…I turned around…the statues had GROWN BACK. They were back where they had always been. How weird is that?
I only ever cross the river at Blackfriars, giving old Boudicca a wide berth. We always seem to rub each other up the wrong way you see, especially when I am menstruating, which I am at the moment, thanks for asking. Unfortunately, last night, I needed to go to Big Ben (real name ‘the clock what is at the top of St Stephens Tower’) to tell the time. As I was craning my eyes upwards at the clock face (I always get too close) I politely turned deaf ears to Boudicca’s bitchy tirade. A nymph she called me. And then she said something about my looking like Nero’s mother, but I drew the line when she shouted “Claudius’ Whore!” in my direction.
“I know you are, I said you are, what am I?” I retorted (because I am good with hecklers).
This started quite a war of words. She told me I had all the personality of a faded mosaic, I countered that her fanny was like an aqueduct. It was harsh, but I was angry. She squealed that I stank like gladiator’s piss. I told her she should be ‘Iceni but not heard’ and this was both a great pun, and factually true her having been dead for near on 2000 years…she should shut the hell up. Unfortunately, this play on words was the last straw: Boudicca and her daughters flipped out and jumped off their carriage and started chasing me across Westminster Bridge. They are much bigger than me and I was scared so I did the only thing I could, I burnt all three of them down. Which was ironic.
I went home all ashy and hot handed and still not knowing what time it was. I had to go back to Westminster this morning and crane up at the massive clock once more. I realised I was late for work, but at least I was safe from that East Anglian cow…I turned around…the statues had GROWN BACK. They were back where they had always been. How weird is that?
