In the final month of the hundredth year of the Primate, Errol Flynn,
We celebrate what he held dear, to wit, a life of sin.
There was no woman, man or beast he not seek to roger,
Round wars and whores and wilder shores he was the Artful Dodger.
He fought, he sailed, he roared, he railed, he made war with Fidel,
He tasted virgin flesh too young and now he dines in Hell.
No better model on this earth, both civilised and feral,
No braver Tassie bloke — save Bruce! — than blithe, uproarious Errol.
And could we, Primates, live as well and die in arms so
young,
And be by our mortician found so sodden and
well-hung,
So literate, and sensuous, adventurous and strong,
Then we, who live such munchkin lives and rarely do
such wrong,
Should lift, at least, a firkin high of Cascade half-strength ale
To toast this first proud century of Errol Flynn. Wassail.
First read aloud at the Primates on Tuesday, 2nd June, 2009.
(‘Bruce!’ Refers to Bruce Venables, King of the Primates and jobbing actor.)
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