Читать книгу Grumpy Old Men: New Year, Same Old Crap - David Quantick - Страница 13

In days of old, when men were bold, and cash for questions wasn’t invented, there was only one qualification for knighthood. You had to be really good at killing people. Oh, and you had to own a horse. But that was about it, really. It made sense.

‘Hello, Alan, where have you been?’

‘Sorry, your Majesty, I’ve been out killing people. Templars and that.’

‘Well, why didn’t you say so? Arise, Sir Gimblenore.’

‘Oh! Ta.’

These days, you don’t get a knighthood for killing people (although certain sections of the popular press would beg to differ, ahem, ahem (see POSH TABLOIDS)). You get one for things like helping the government when it’s broke, or for having been on the South Bank Show, or for being good at acting, or for being a rock singer who hasn’t died yet.

Which is a pity. They really ought to turn the clock back on this. Just to see ‘Sir’ Mick Jagger hurtling along on a horse, waving a wobbly lance, trying to spear ‘Sir’ Alan Sugar. They could sell tickets. They’d make a fortune.