Devious Journal Entry
It's purely coincidence that “frækna,” the Icelandic word for “valiant,” looks a bit like the English word for “freak” because this saga is chock full of some freaky motherfuckers. Sigurgarður himself is normal bordering on boring but his BFF is a literal ass-mutant. Not a literal-ass mutant, like actually someone with a mutant ass that he uses for the forces of good. We’ll go into details when we get there.
Armed to the teeth
Of course there is some king, he has some son named Sigurgarður, who is hot and smart and strong and all that shit. He is raised by this foster family who have two sons, Högni and Sigmundur (who also fit the ideal of medieval Ken-doll-ness), but the king’s dudes don’t like them because they’re always winning the reindeer games or whatever rich people did back then.
The king’s advisor tries to have one of them killed. In the impending scuffle, Högni literally rips the advisor’s arm off his body and hits him in the face so hard with his own arm that his skull cracks and he dies. Sigurgarður sends his foster-bros into the forest before the king arrives and can take vengeance on them. He mad, but whatevs. Sigurgarður grows up to be a well-respected womanizer.
From limp dick…
Enter Ingigerður, a woman who will not be –ized. When her father mysteriously dies, Ingigerður less-than-politely tells her stepmother to fuck right the fuck off. Hlégerður does so, but only after placing the weirdest curse ever on the princess: her sisters will be turned into farm animals and the Ingigerður herself will treat everyone hella shitty until Hlégerður’s evil spirit egg is smashed up the princess’s nose.
Then Hlégerður, her brothers, and the two younger princesses disappear. Ingigerður declares herself king and takes the male name Ingi, rising to power quickly as a warlord. She has every man who proposes to her killed and ties their heads to the fence. Eventually, Sigurgarður comes along to try to seduce her and she’s like, “Ummm, did you not see my collection of man-corpses?” Like most men, he is undaunted and persistent.
She agrees to marry him but only if he gives her his fancy golden flag. He agrees, but she gets him so drunk that he passes out before they get freaky in the bedroom. She acts all blue-balled (or whatever parts of ladies turn blue when they don’t get properly laid) the next morning and offers him a second chance in exchange for his sword. He agrees, but she tricks him yet again, also telling her entire court that he can’t get it up. The third time, she takes his awesome dragon-ship but he stays sober to outwit her. So she orders him killed, but he picks up one of the assassins by his feet and uses him as a weapon to bludgeon the others and escapes.
…To hard ass
Sigurgarður returns disguised as a merchant of magical items, trying to trade a magic carpet in exchange for Ingi’s hand in marriage. She pushes him off the carpet, takes it, and says something like, “Nice try, whisky dick. Bring me something cooler next time.” He asks his foster-parents for advice, and they give him a bag filled with magic dust and suggest he pick up some randos to help.
So as he sails along, he enlists the help of a hunchback named Hörður Hard-Ass who uses his rock-hard booty as a combination shield and wrecking ball, as well as a dude named Stígandi who can walk on water and use a sickle like a grappling hook. Together they take on an infamous raider named Knútur and his ship captain, literally named Shit-Face because his nose is black. Sigurgarður fakes his own death and steals Knútur’s identity before the three of them take up lodging in Ingi’s castle as retainers.
Egged on (her face)
Ingi gives each of them a task in exchange for her few months of hospitality (which included several murder attempts that are quickly foiled by ass or sickle). Stígandi must gather her pigs and bring them back, Hörður her horses, and “Knútur” her oxen, with one of their horns filled with gold, as well as her special eggs. So they set off to find them. After another couple of murder attempts, including one by a werewolf, they see Hlégerður. Knútur nicks her witchy ass just as she turns into a crow and flies off.
They follow her blood-trail to find a baby horse getting the shit kicked out of it by other horses and leave Hörður to deal with it. They keep following and also find a pig being literally suckled to death by piglets and Stígandi stays to sort it out. Knútur journeys on to find the egg and the ox, take its horn, kill a giant, the crow, and a dragon, and then fill the ox horn with gold. He returns to find Hörður butt-deep in battle with one of Hlégerður’s brothers and a troll-army and saves his ass. Then he does the same for Stígandi with the other brother. They use the magic dust from the bag to calm all the animals and heard them home.
The three of them jump Ingi, ass-to-sword, sickle-to-shield, and then Knútur smashes the egg in her face, breaking the curse. The mother pig and baby horse turn back into princesses and Hörður and Stígandi are revealed to be the foster-brothers Högni and Sigmundur. Then everyone gets married and Ingigerður tells all the court that Sigurgarður can actually get it up after all.
Morals of the story:
1. I like big butt (jokes) and I cannot lie.
2. Decorate your home with the corpses of men who’ve wronged you.
Minimalism
In 1899, Edwin Way Teale wrote, “Reduce the complexity of life by eliminating the needless wants of life, and the labors of life reduce themselves.” This philosophy has taken form in recent years as ‘minimalism,’ a growing movement of young people around the world who want nothing to do with acquiring material possessions, but would rather spend their money, time, and effort on things that they truly enjoy. Gone are the obligations to clean, maintain, and expand constantly one’s collection of items and in its place are opportunities to travel, socialize, relax, and engage in hobbies.
Japan, in particular, has become a hotbed for minimalism. A country that is long familiar with ascetic philosophy in the form of traditional Zen Buddhism, minimalism feels like a good fit. Many young adherents, however, are taking it to extremes, emptying their already tiny apartment to a point that almost appears unlivable by conventional North American standards.
Bitters!
The highly aromatic elixir, made from a secret recipe of rare herbs, has been the mainstay in many a cocktail for over 150 years, giving drinks that extra impeccably spicy touch. The drought has only just come to light, when the company who manufacture the bitters in Trinidad revealed stocks had completely run out. "You can't just turn on and off supply of bitters. It's not like producing bottled water – it's a very delicate, intricate process," said Angostura's Chief Executive Patrick Sepe.
Sophistication!
Having others, in a conversation, nodding in agreement, whether they are in agreement or not, due to the irrefutable sophistication of the commentator. Never having others ask where you bought a certain item of apparel since they know it will never look as perfect on them.
Who, in your opinion, is or was the quintessential English gentleman?
As seen through my American movie-obsessed eyes, my namesake Ronald Coleman. I've always been proud that my mother named me after the stereotypical English gentleman actor. And he wore a gentlemanly moustache.
And the quintessential lady?
Vivien Leigh.
Where do you think the best-dressed people are?
Tokyo and Brussels.
Name three two favourite items in your personal wardrobe.
My cravat. My second cravat. My third cravat.
What single situation has been the greatest challenge to your wardrobe and your personal grooming skills?
Trying to participate in physical exercise while remaining inoffensive in dress and fragrance.
What form of facial hair do you think it is appropriate for a gentleman to sport?
Moustache and only the moustache.
Are there any customs or personal habits that you believe should be completely outlawed in order to create a more civilised society?
Smoking to appear civilised. Using obsolete pick-up lines demonstrate oneÕs sophistication. Using computers.
What items of clothing do you consider to be the height of vulgarity?
Any rolled-up sleeve. Cargo pants. Jewellery of any kind.
How do you view the manner in which young chaps attire themselves these days?
A little too self-conscious for my taste.
What vices, if any, do you believe are conducive to beauty of mind and elevation of the soul?
Being a spectator at a sporting event (but never making it the subject of one's conversation the next day).
Which view from which window would you call a portal to the sublime?
The view of a movie screen.
An Alternative Code of Conduct....
2 THOU SHALT NEVER NOT SMOKE. Health and Safety "executives" and jobsworth medical practitioners keep trying to convince us that smoking is bad for the lungs/heart/skin/eyebrows, but we all know that smoking a bent apple billiard full of rich Cavendish tobacco raises one's general sense of well-being to levels unimaginable by the aforementioned spoilsports.
3 THOU SHALT ALWAYS BE COURTEOUS TO THE LADIES. A gentleman is never truly seated on an omnibus or railway carriage: he is merely keeping the seat warm for when a lady might need it. Those who take offence at being offered a seat are not really Ladies.
4 THOU SHALT NEVER, EVER, WEAR PANTALOONS DE NIMES. When you have progressed beyond fondling girls in the back seats of cinemas, you can stop wearing jeans. Wear fabrics appropriate to your age, and, who knows, you might even get a quick fumble in your box at the opera.
5 THOU SHALT ALWAYS DOFF ONE'S HAT. Alright, so you own a couple of trilbies. Good for you - but it's hardly going to change the world. Once you start actually lifting them off your head when greeting, departing or simply saluting passers-by, then the revolution will really begin.
6 THOU SHALT NEVER FASTEN THE LOWEST BUTTON ON THY WESKIT. Look, we don't make the rules, we simply try to keep them going. This one dates back to Edward VII, sufficient reason in itself to observe it.
7 THOU SHALT ALWAYS SPEAK PROPERLY. It's quite simple really. Instead of saying "Yo, wassup?", say "How do you do?"
8 THOU SHALT NEVER WEAR PLIMSOLLS WHEN NOT DOING SPORT. Nor even when doing sport. Which you shouldn't be doing anyway. Except cricket.
9 THOU SHALT ALWAYS WORSHIP AT THE TROUSER PRESS. At the end of each day, your trousers should be placed in one of Mr. Corby's magical contraptions, and by the next morning your creases will be so sharp that they will start a riot on the high street.
10 THOU SHALT ALWAYS CULTIVATE INTERESTING FACIAL HAIR. By interesting we mean moustaches, not beards.