About John

Here I am, baffled and dizzy. A week of bad sleep has had its results. Yesterday for the first time in ages, I had my old pre-migraine vision blurring symptoms with added flashing lights. A bad headache came though it was not a migraine. It hasn't properly gone yet. I have stuff to do today, but need to note this waking dream first, because it was strange and strong.

A man on horseback came to find me. He looked like a perfect brigand, dark of skin and hair and not necessarily pleasant of expression. I asked him his name and he frowned, telling me he was John of England, and I was to come with him. I came to a place where many kings and queens of England and Scotland and Britain were, though I saw no Arthur (I know he may not be real, but in my head he is very important) Victoria and Elizabeth were there, Churchill and Disraeli were there too. It was crowded. I find it hard to remember what they said... It seemed strange that one of their number should have been sent to find me, and I asked John, whom I presumed was King John Lackland, why I was there. He looked surprised. 'You can see,' he said. Considering this waking dream was happening precisely when I couldn't see in real lifetm due to this visual migraine-ish crappiness, I was even more confused.

When the pain receded, I googled King John. It wasn't him. I tried to think of another man of that name connected with the royalty of the isles, because there have been a few here and there... I found a portrait of John of Gaunt, whom I only really knew as the sage old chap in Richard II. His portrait doesn't look sage at all. He looks just like the guy in my dream.

Explanations: I have researched and forgotten a lot of stuff in my time. Maybe this was just a dredge up of old information. The brain make strange connections: in Richard II, wise old Gaunt who is not a brigand on a horse, makes a great death speech about England...


This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for her self
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in a silver sea
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,
Feared by their breed and famous for their birth,
Renownèd for their deeds as far from home
For Christian service and true chivalry
As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry
Of the world's ransom, blessèd Mary's son.
This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land,
Dear for her reputation through the world,
Is now leased out - I die pronouncing it -
Like to a tenement or pelting farm.
England, bound in with the triumphant sea,
Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege
Of watery Neptune, is now bound in with shame,
With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds.
That England that was wont to conquer others
Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.


The John I saw looked as though he would have run out of patience and probably breath less than half way through what are basically two sentences. Maybe this is just my brain discarding all this Brexity rubbish, or expressing impatience at the filibustering nonsense in the HoL. Or maybe I am just joining the rest of the country in losing the plot.