Essex Lions

According to my correspondent running second in the Ex-Matrimonial Stakes, this column has affected denizens of the marshes.  I am surprised!  Less that they read, but that they tear themselves from the bosom of Heat.  Notwithstanding, I apologise if this weblog upsets anyone: it is not meant so to do.  I am what I am, and what I am, etcetera...

Before the City expanded eastwards, Majesty hunted the forest and marsh and helped form the massive county of Essex. The ship-builders took the trees; the resultant pasture became famous for its veal.  The calves became known as Essex Lions, rather like the Cotswold Lions that were lambs. Paying attention, 007?
Wessex and Middlesex had their specialities, but in Essex, the classic white stiletto could be born!

Such aggrandisement may relate to the second Earl of the area, who was topped eventually by QE1.  And I do mean topped eventually as it apparently took three strikes to cut his treasonous bloody head off.  He had a bit of a bad deal, really.  Wanted to go to Ireland to sort it all out for Queen and Country and messed it up by distributing the troops. 'He never drew swords but to create knights', claimed Paddy, after the Error of Essex.  He made more knights in Ireland than Bessie did in Blighty.  Soon after, QE1 had him over a block.

'Reasons are not like garments, the worse for wearing,' claimed Bob Devereux, the aforementioned 2nd Earl of Essex.  Seems even back in the late 16th Century a thing worn once needed to be replaced, a reason warranted but a word.  There is clearly a continuity of being, north of the Thames as it flows to the east.  By the way, why on earth was that place called Southend-on-Sea?  South end of what?  And which sea, exactly?

It seems wrong to be so maledictory.  I wish to point out to my reader that the lines in the recent missive were written by Ian Dury, who was a beat-combo leader in the 1970s.  They were not a diary note from your correspondent, who has never been near to Burnham-on-Crouch, or indeed, a sofa.  Someone made a film of  Ian Dury's life recently, but as he coloured his songs with characters from the East and Sarf of London, and the Marshes, guess no-one indigenous went to watch it.  Shame.

To paraphrase a recent lyric-donor to this rubbish, I don't mind being labelled as a twit but I won't be dismissed as a twit.  Thank-you Mr Bragg, and good night!