Wordings 30: Chaucer's Guyde to Writinge

A Guide to Writing, from one of England's Greatest Poets

Hello,

I hope this finds you well - it’s been a surprisingly long time since I last sent a Wordings out (surprising to me anyway). Once I finished my 10 show retrospective I think I was technically “pooped.”

I’m creeping back into these Wordings though, with this piece I originally wrote for the Lmaonaise Comedy Newsletter. Lmaonaise is a really great publication, which really loves the UK live comedy scene, and they’re putting out their exciting HARD COPY NEWSPAPER at the moment, which you can buy here. That’s where you can read this piece, if you want to read it again, but on a lovely piece of newsprint. With photos by the brilliant Natasha Pszenicki.

Geoffrey Chaucer is probably the *funniest* thing I do live - it’s sort of hard to explain, except it’s not. I speak in a made-up nonsense old english, a fairy has stolen my clothes, and I wear fake genitals made out of three uninflated modelling balloons. Honestly, it’s a riot. Now, written down… well, let’s see how it works.

The reason I wrote the piece is MERCANTILE - I’m hosting three Christmas shows as Geoffrey Chaucer (with a guest appearance from the Terrible Old Crone) in Manchester, Edinburgh and London. Each show has a bunch of brilliant comics on the lineup.

Dec 4th, Manchester, with: Jain Edwards, Frank Lavender, Foxdog Studios, and Hannah Platt!

Dec 8th, Edinburgh, with: Eleanor Morton, Phil O’Shea, Marjolein Robertson and Josie Long!

Dec 13th, London, with: Bilal Zafar, Lil Wenker, Luke Rollason, Lachlan Werner, and Cabbage the Clown!

All tickets available HERE

OK, that’s enough pre-Chaucer rambling. There’s an audio recording of this piece, so you can listen along if you have difficulty understanding. Will it help? Who know!

Take Care of Yourselves,

John-Luke

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Hilau and full verrily good morrowe. Y am Giffrey Charcer, a ful famouse poot, as ye parbobly knaow. Y am a poot, and that meynes y wreet pootry. Wat is pootry? Wol, et is lyk wreeting, but a poot alweys rims. At end of evrie line, y rim. Oh, how y lyk to rim! Lyk, lyk, lyk, rim, rim rim! Y am, the gratest Onglish poot that ovver livd! FUCT! Woll, socond gratest - y shakke me fizt at yow, Shakkespoo!

Noo, y am nit from the noo, y am from medieaeaevul teems. That is lyk the noo, bot agoo. Lang agoo, in fuct. In medieaeuevul Onglond, thar war kernights (lyk a mon, but woth a metall onesie), and watches (lyk a wazard, wyth babs), and droggons (lyk dynosaures, bot meyde-op), and kissholes (lyk a bolding, bot fartifyed), and merryment (lyk fon, bot wyth a jester).

A faerie stole me clathes awoo (A faerie es lyk a gablin, o lyk a pixye, o lyk a Dannye Devyto wyth wangs) y foll asleep far a lang teem (beccas av a mogick corse fram a pooerfol watch (babwazard) y had opsit woth a rym that she thart war rood (“veritublle watch” and “terribublle batch”)) and y hav warken op in the madern doo! The madern doo! In the yar Twow-thasond-and-fur-and-twiglet! EMOGINE!? Thus, y am a mon oot av teem, and wathoot a patron, y myst fund a woo ta meek monney (ye na, wanga, brod, bonjamons, cosh, lally, grune) and soo y am solling mesolf as a wreeting tyowtur. Y woll titch ye hoo ta wreet.

Y Thos Presont me Tarster -

Giffrey Charcer’s (grat poot) Guyde ta Wreeting

1. Lorn ta reyde! Et is vory horde ta wreet if ye cannit reed. So, y nah et seymes barring (teydyoss) and makke ye yaowne (lyk breything, bot bog and sloopy), bot thar es ney gotting aroond et, trauowly. Dow nit stort woth a bok, start woth a sontonce - ar ooven a ward. A somple worde fyrst, lyk “cak” (the dongly ginitoolya betweyne wuns logs) ond wark ye waiy op to, far exomple, “ontidesostoblishmontareeonisum” (y dow nit noo what that es, y am from the posste befar thar war ostoblishmontahrianisum, eyven).

2. Thonk! Ye mosste thonk befar ye wreet, ar ye woll ond op wreeting somthing styowpid, lyk “Y wandered loonly as a clahd” !?!?? A clahd?! Loonly!? EN ONGLOND?! The clahds en onglond hov lahds and lahds of fronds. The clahds ah hoving a blodye partye op thore, ond ney mistook! Wardsworth, what a prock.

3. If ye stroggle wyth a tytle, just thonk af a jobbe and styk “Ye” at the begonning, and “Tale” at the ond: Ye Accountant’s Tale, Ye Beatboxer’s Tale, Ye Gynaecologyst’s Tale” etc.

4. Routyne es soo empartont far a wreeter - if ye dow nit hov a routyne, ye ar nit a wreeter, ye ar a habbyiste. Har es moo routyne, os en exomple:

MARNING. WARK OP WOTH THE CAK’S CROO. (“CAK-A-DEYDLE-DEY!”)

LEYTE MARNING. CAPER AROOND A BYT,

PREYE TO GAD.

LONCH. EET A NEECE WHOTIVVER WE CALL A SONDWICH IN MEDYIEIIVAL TEEMS.

OFTERNOON. TRYE TA THYNK AV A REEM FAR “ORANGE.”

LEYT OVTERNOON. GIV OP.

EYRLY EVYNYNGE. SYE IF Y CON GOT A LOTTLE BYT AV HONKY PONKY (SOKS, RUMPYE UMPYE, HAOWS-YE-FEATHER, SLOP-AND-TOCKLE) WYTH MY WYF, OR WHOSOEVYR.

EVYNGYE. GYT DRONK.

LART EYVNYGE. WREET A POOM.

NIGHTE. SLOOP.

by Geoffrey Chaucer, Poot