Near Psychedelic Coronation

NEAR PSYCHEDELIC CORONATION

Oh yes! Slow climactic surge increasing, brightness feelings, sounds enfolding, bursting glory gifting greatness to ALL HAIL! ALL HAIL! ALL HAIL MACBETH!

The throaty roar rang out from soldiers courtiers, choir and peasants there assembled loud convincing until as the director required of us, nay orders us, to shake down showers of dust from the sunlit golden dome of Ely Cathedral’s mighty cosmic Lantern Tower.

Gathered beneath it around the Coronation throne we film crew surprised ourselves with the seeming significance. A new and mighty King was birthed, crowned, anointed and vested our leader, with life and death power, by us the people in ceremonial duty. Stand monk, along with your brothers I was commanded, we the church were still, sober silent and erect behind the throne, a bulwark, a flying buttress to the Royal and civil order made sacred by our presence, lending Holy sanctification.

Best job I’ve had for years, eh! A clear hundred quid for standing there, a hairy beardy prannet, garbed and wardrobed, cowl and cross, by Bishops in their golden vestments capes and mitres, crooks and staves. Upon the throne the mightiest crook of all; with murderous dark intent he had slain his illegitimate way to the throne and this monk, closely observing him, Michael Fassbender as it happens, up close and personal, and seeing then, do, as only skilled actors can, with his peering piercing LOOK, way down past the assembled throng into the cavernous long and smoky nave lit by great diagonal sunbeams pouring their lines through the artificial smoke, he probed the future. He saw destiny, fate, crying the polar opposite of the earthly acclamation.

There was no ALL HAIL, his twisted evil heart knew as did his likewise lady that this was a hollow victory. All the crowd there gathered knew, knew but dare not utter. Kiss the ring each kneeling ranking Lord in turn, but unbelieve.

Still it was a great occasion. Grand and regal in all its trappings, with the colour, trimmings, and all the sentiments too. The stirring up within, even of this aged monk, new valour in the blood, a warlike readiness to kill and conquer for this our leader of our tribe, we Scots, bloody and fierce, if only in our Scottish Play. Damn near psychedelic indeed under the dome of the Lantern Tower.

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