My mate, right - used to work for Shakespeare he did.
When I say "my mate" I like, use the term loosely, because it was centuries ago - even before pub pool tables and space invaders.
Anyroad - shut it you. I'm posting this joke and bollocks to yer - me mate were looking for Bill - that's what he called him then, before he became William - oh bollocks...I've lost me thread now...
So...me mate needs to have a word with the bard. A cencorship issue or some such shit (go on...after twelve pints I dare ya. You'll never do it. You can have the copyright for fuck all if you can pull that line off pissed)
Censorship issue or some such shit.
Good one that.
I can't do it either. I can compress expelled piss in voluminous quantities in me fiveskin before squeezing it and...
Oh fuck off will ya...
Me mate's looking for the Bard of Avon. He's done up to the knocker in his best suit of armour, with a plume on his his helmet, and a lance - not a fucking gay Lance - a lance, as in a pointed jousting instrument...
Look. Stop it. I'm losing me thread here. Just let me tell the joke then I can fuck off quietly.
So me mate - he's riding his trusty steed...
Hang on - I've got to get back in character here or it won't work.
Don't fucking laugh! It's serious this...
So, me mate, he's riding his trusty steed through the countryside looking for the Bard. And he approaches a village. When he gets there, he sees these Dark Age hookers in pointy hats and flowing robes. He stops and says:
"Prithee and forsooth good ladies of the village. Hast thou seen the Bard of Avon, the Venerable Mr Shakespeare himself pass this way?"
"Oh no sire" sayeth the one with the bounteous breast. "But if thou shouldst care to rest up overnight prithee, one art certain one can work something out.."
But our man was not to be deterred. Slapping his trusty steed on the rump with a vacuum sealed packet of Danish back bacon.
And so the valiant knight led his rusty steed to the next village...
(I'm getting fucking bored typing this because I know the punchline)
Whereupon, forsooth, and abracadabra and stuff, he didst meet some horse outlaws - some villainous neo nazi types who were bona fide nazis long before Hitler ever got the idea...
"Prithee good horsecycle rebel gang..." he enquired. "Hast thou seeneth the bard of Avon pass by anon upon a gilded steed with bejewelled saddle, and bridle of gold?"
"We have that Sir Goodly Knight," quoth one. "The greatly revered Bard passed by this very way nobbut six and thirty seconds past."
At which our man grew intrepid.
"Whicheth wayeth did the venerable Bard, Shakespeare the unmatched poet of the minellium goeth? Prithee and forsooth?"
(Bear with me - it gets worse.)
"He didst goeth thataway," sayeth the horseman. Indicating with his pointed lance for our man to set off in hot pursuit. Before hot pursuit was ever invented.
"Thanking thee kind sir, prithee and forsooth," sayeth the knight, our man. And whipping his trusty steed into a state of frenzy, he galloped his charge down the road.
Whereon, thereon, forsooth, prithee and all that medieval stuff - he did come across a harlot strumpet and a village hayseed located loquaciously by a right angled crossroad.
"Forsooth and prithee kind strumpet and idiot of the village - I am in search of the Bard of Avon. I doeth believeth that my master hath preceeded myself hitherto and untoward an ting. Telleth me - what route didst he taketh from these here crossroads?"
"Dunno," sayeth the strumpet, and the fool.
Our man was not impressed.
"Bollocks to this," he did sayeth. "I'm fucking off home and you can all stick your shit Shakespeare jokes up your arse. Cunts."
Okay - so it's about as funny as a napalm burn - but it didn't cost you anything.