“What’s the point of owning a moat if you’re forbidden from throwing the locals into it and watching them flail for their lives before ultimately succumbing to the same watery grave which imprisons their fathers, grandfathers, uncles and second cousins?”

Deary me, not a day used to go by without Dad coming out with that lot.  He’d go on for hours: moat this, locals that, morbidity, corpsehood and servitude the other.  He was a damaged man, my dad, not that such a term existed back in his day.  Back then he was known as ‘passionate’, ‘dedicated’, ‘hardworking’.  In his promotional literature he boasted of ‘having worked closely with’ the full gamut of regional worthies.  Deary me, he was emir of the entire oblast; I’ve no idea whose favour he was attempting to curry with this absurd rhetoric.

But on he’d go, “chuck ’em in the fuckin’ moat”, “send ’em to their deserved, wet fate”, it never ended.  Even today, decrepit and spent and obsolesced by democracy, he lies sprawled on his cushions, moat-muttering.  When the rotten old bastard finally kicks the bucket the estate is mine, and the identity of the first object over the battlement – splash! – will be obvious to the intelligent reader.