Town Cryer Squire Derek has asked me to say a few words of contrition about my last proclamation. In fact, unless I didn't know better, it sounded like he was telling me to.

Kings do not normally take well to instruction – it's just not how we roll. For me, only Alfred the 'Great' (debatable) can tell me what to do. Of course, I then comply with good grace. Compromise, as you know, is my middle name.

Actually, my middle name is Biornlfredergæsthildejír. But don't worry, I won't expect that on my plaque when you lot get round to putting one up.

Anyway, I can't ignore the dragon in the room - some townsfolk were upset by some of my attempts at humour. I mean the references to King Cnut. You can probably guess the gist. No need to illuminate the manuscript, as we used to say.

If you are easily offended, I urge you not to read all about it here.

Not gonna lie, I was taken aback by the reaction. It's not like I dissed our loyal huscarls, or called for all the Ealdormen to be shot. But Squire Derek insisted that the yeomanry of Hadleigh don't appreciate vulgarity like they did in my day. Back then, they loved it. It was 'fussock' or 'fretr' every other word.

Well, I'm not going to get all 'Rowland Taylor' on you and style it out. I used an everyday expression, but it was regrettable. Forgive a former pagan his banquet-hall banter.

Now: where's my fussocking statue you ungrateful curs.