Indeed, old friend! It could well be I was. I certainly remember the day the authorities dug Cromwell up, 'that brave bad man' and hung him for his sins. The coin of his 'reign' was not the crudely bashed out impressions of that royal head but rather the blood on the swords of his army. The stench was almost unbearable and only alleviated by the malodorous body aroma which permeated the gay scene from the platoons of whores who plied their trade on this festive occasion.
Of Charles demise: I remember joining the grim ceremony which demanded the dipping of one's personal handkerchief into the blood of the very recently beheaded Monarch. It should fetch a princely sum if I can acquire the appropriate matching DNA evidence prior to flogging it on Ebay.
'Find your enemy and shoot him down - everything else is unimportant.'
