I am reading a book on Shakespeare at the moment. It is by Bill Bryson, who writes very very funny books usually about travel. I would like to be Bill Bryson, but at the moment I am Laura Nunn, so you will have to put up with that for now. As and when (or if) I become Bill Bryson, I will let you know. I am still trying to grow the beard.
Anyway, I digress. I am reading a book about Shakespeare. I did English at uni, so I know a little bit already about the Brummy Bard, but most of the stuff I read was criticism of his works, or else his works themselves, whereas the Bryson book is a biography.
Jesus, we don't know anything at all about Shakespeare! Only six signatures of his exist, and they reckon that at least three of them were probably faked. No-one knows where he was or for how long, whether he was gay or not, and we also (carelessly) appear to have lost a fair number of his plays.
Well, in your face, Shakespeare. I am very careful to keep an accurate diary, and I predict now that this Plog will outlast any of your rubbish sonnets. If this be false and it upon me proved...
Oh, never mind.