Remember, Remember by Ed Cooke

By Ed Cooke

Kings and queens, British leading ministers, American presidents, nations of Europe - we must always all comprehend this stuff - yet like me, you are most likely resigned to being the type of individual that simply by no means will. Now Grandmaster of reminiscence Ed Cooke bargains up his reminiscence secrets and techniques with a enjoyable, speedy and entirely unforgettable approach to bear in mind the belongings you notion you by no means might. yet this is often no uninteresting Willy, Willy, Harry, Ste. With Ed top the way in which on not going adventures via humans and locations, Abraham Lincoln may perhaps develop into a circle of bra-wearing hams linking palms on your brain, and you can good come upon a refrigerator donning Calvin Klein underpants. you may additionally quickly end up damn off the leading ministers to a rapt viewers and including, in a realizing tone, 'ah sure, Marquess of Rockingham, Whig I believe?'. what's evidently is that you will be bursting with wisdom that would stick on your brain and galvanize your folks for ever.

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Remember, Remember

Kings and queens, British top ministers, American presidents, nations of Europe - we must always all recognize these items - yet like me, you are most likely resigned to being the type of person who simply by no means will. Now Grandmaster of reminiscence Ed Cooke bargains up his reminiscence secrets and techniques with a enjoyable, speedy and entirely unforgettable method to consider the belongings you idea you by no means might.

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And the liquid he’s just been washed in is, by the smell of things, well… a most unappetizing one. I’m sorry to say this, but it’s quite evident that his head-wig is wet with human urine. King Eadwig, that’s his name, appears to have wet himself during the wash, and has thus been doused in his own wee. It makes you want to sneeze. It’ll be no surprise to the reader to hear that King Eadwig’s other name is King Edwy. He’s the only king with two names in the directory, so to speak. Thank goodness.

Watch as he dips a foot in to test them, only to whip it back out with a pained sigh. And, blimey, look at those feet of his! To think that I nearly missed them! They’re just horrible – they’re covered entirely in a thick matting of grey hair. So one thing’s clear: this is Harold Hairy-feet, or, rather, Harefoot that we’re watching on TV Harold Harejoot is our next king. But Harold has now got company; this looks interesting. A small watercraft, perhaps a canoe, is bouncing along the river towards him at great speed, sometimes almost doing the water-going equivalent of a wheelie.

Hello again, Harold,’ we say, carefully eyeing his feet. But there’s no hair. His feet are undeniably, disgustingly bald. And he is tapping one impatiently on the dewy grass. We take the hint, thank him for his kindness and head off, still trying to come to terms with this being an entirely different Harold. Harold II, indeed, the last of the kings of Wessex – the last of the AngloSaxons. We’re now on Norman Street, headed for the bus stop a few yards distant. Up close, this stop turns out to be one of the most nondescript, utterly run-of-the-mill bus stops you’ve ever seen.

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