St Sepulchre without Newgate. Thomas Culpepper and the Tudor love triangle.

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Saint Sepulchre without Newgate is located just outside the old city walls of London. The church barely survived the great fire of 1666 before heavy renovation in the 19th century. A slab of wall from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem hangs on a central pillar honouring the holy site of which the church takes its name. The Old Bailey is opposite, built on the site where the medieval Newgate gaol once stood. Such proximity to establishments of justice gives St Sepulchre a long history of crime and punishment. The church bell would toll to announce that an execution had taken place while the clerk of the parish would be tasked with ringing a hand bell outside the cell of a condemned prisoner. The bell now sits proudly in a glass display cabinet in the church’s nave having been silenced of its tormenting ring of impending death. During the reign of Mary I the church vicar was convicted of heresy and burnt alive at the stake. For centuries the church tower which reaches to the heavens would have been the final sight of earthly holiness for those dragged to their doom convinced that their crimes condemned them to hell. Executed prisoners were often buried in the churchyard without memorial which has since been paved over as a garden of remembrance to the Royal Fusiliers. City workers in suits sit in the garden enjoying their lunchtime sandwiches oblivious to the convicted bones hidden deep below their feet.

st sepelchre

Thomas Culpepper was born the second of three sons in Kent in 1514. He grew up to be handsome and much desired courtier of King Henry VIII securing himself as one of the king’s favourites after a successful career obtaining precious and rare items for the royal family. He had also amassed a long line of female admirers. Catherine Howard was a young maiden to Henry’s fated fourth wife Ann of Cleeves. The marriage was a disaster which ended in humiliation and a hasty annulment. Catherine was beautiful, flirtatious and no stranger to romantic controversy. In her youth she had caused a scuffle between her music tutor and a gentleman servitor. They had both fallen for her and it ended in a prophetic scene of jealously, anger and violence. She was also a distant cousin of Thomas Culpepper however this did not prevent an intense attraction emerging between the two. Gossip spread around court culminating in rumours of marriage. However it all fizzled out as Catherine had a much more prestigious partner in her focus: King Henry himself. Even for Henry VIII Catherine Howard was quite a catch. By 1540 the king was an old and overweight fraction of the physical specimen he had once been. His doomed marriage to Ann of Cleeves had been a crushing disappointment and Catherine at thirty years his junior provided the perfect lustful antidote. They married and Catherine became his queen.

The summer of 1540 was hot and dry. Cattle died of thirst. Peasants died of plague. But for the infatuated Henry and his new queen life couldn’t be better as the conditions were perfect for a prolonged hunting season. A French ambassador noted that the king “is so amorous of her that he cannot treat her well enough and caresses her more than he did the others”. He couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Life was good for Henry but during a progress north in 1541  curious goings on began to occur. Locks had been fiddled with. Lights and movement had been spotted from the Queens’ apartments in the middle of the night. Stairway doors had been left ajar. Bedroom doors were bolted. There had been comings and goings in the middle of the night while the King slept in his chamber. It was all a bit suspicious. On top of this a ghost of Catherine’s past reared his unwelcome head. Francis Dereham, the gentleman servitor from Catherine’s youth, appeared at court and begun causing scenes with his uncouth behaviour of hanging around a bit too long after meals in the Queen’s presence. When reprimanded for such improper behaviour he lashed out claiming that he’d known the queen long before anybody else. This raised some eyebrows. In what way had he known her?

While attending All Souls’ Day mass Henry found a damning letter on his seat. It contained sensational allegations against his Queen. While investigations into her past ensued Catherine would have been equally concerned about what she had been up to in the present. Under intense examination Dareham blabbed. He had “carnal knowledge” of the queen from the days before she had arrived at the royal court. A furious Henry had the pair imprisoned. The problem for Henry was that the affair had happened before his marriage to Catherine therefore It couldn’t be considered treason. He needed proof of a relationship taking place after the royal wedding. To gather more evidence he had Darehan brutally persecuted which lead to an even deeper secret emerging. Once again Dareham said too much although in his defence this time it was under the excruciating pain of torture. There HAD been an affair after the marriage but not with him, it was with Catherine’s old flame Thomas Culpepper. He had been the sneaking lover making things go bump in the night. The true extent of Catherine and Culpepper’s forbidden romance was never fully revealed. She proclaimed that it didn’t extend further than the exchange of lover’s tokens and amorous letters. Regardless the king had been deceived which was enough to warrant treason. They all had to be punished.

tyburn

Thomas Culpepper would have heard the clang of the execution bell outside his cell at Newgate on the 10th December 1541. He would have been paraded on a hurdle along Oxford Street towards Tyburn (where Marble Arch stands today) while a baying crowd gathered with raucous excitement. They were here to see the execution of traitors. Dareham joined him. His crime had been nothing more sinister than to sleep with a young woman who at the time wasn’t married yet he suffered the worst punishment physically possible. he was hung by a noose then cut down just before reaching the point of strangulation. From here, with a cheer of vengeful glee from the crowd, he was castrated. At this point, while still conscious, he was disembowelled, his torso and stomach sliced open and his organs torn away. Only after this grotesque display of agony was he finally beheaded.
Hung.
Drawn.
Quartered.
Dareham’s execution was an act of such terrifying gore and violence that Culpepper had pleaded for mercy from the king. His plea was granted and he avoided subjection to the full works. A simple beheading preferable next to Dareham’s gruesome death. It almost seems like an act of benevolent mercy in comparison. The bodies were hung from Tyburn tree for the crowd to gawp at before their dismembered heads were removed for a stint on a spike at London Bridge. Finally Thomas Culpepper was buried in the churchyard at St Sepulchre without Newgate. Catherine’s execution followed soon after. This Tudor love triangle ended in a bloody death for all involved at the hands of the king who had been betrayed.

So if you ever grab a bite to eat in the city of London and decide to munch away in the churchyard spare a thought for Thomas Culpepper and his deadly run in with king Henry VIII. Then think of all the other deceased criminals resting underneath that garden. Because every forgotten skull in the earth beside that church has its own story of how it ended up there.

Esteban.


Historical information for this story was gathered from David Starkey’s Six Wives:The Queens of Henry VIII, a fantastic book of stunning biographical depth and analysis of all of Henry’s wives.

Palahniuks homework. Irritant.

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Between 2005 and 2007 Chuck Palahniuk, author of various bestselling novels including: Fight Club, Choke, Survivor and Invisible Monsters, published a series of essays offering techniques and advice for crafting the kind of minimalistic stories he is famous for. Described by critics as a nihilist, but a self proclaimed romanticist, Chucks’ insightful essays, 36 in total, often feature little “homework” assignments for readers to attempt. Here is the first in a series of short fictional stories attempted using the methods described in his essays which relies on allowing “yourself to become the fool instead of the hero” to get the readers attention. So I present to you Irritant, enjoy.


Irritant

There’s this bar in town pretending to be a club. It plays those infuriatingly catchy songs by Bieber and Guetta. Rihannah and Gaga. About how everybody’s having a great time. How the party never ends. Repetitive beat. Autotuned hum. Soundtrack to Saturday night. Well this bar slash club it’s introduced this new rule. Strictly enforced. Under no circumstances are drinks to be left unattended. Any drinks left unattended will be taken away. Like a suspicious package at an airport they will be removed. They will be destroyed. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking something nasty. You’re thinking: Rohypnol, ketamine, valium. A tablet into some poor girls’ drink. Follow her outside. Bundle her into a cab and…

Well you’re wrong. It’s nothing like that. Anyway most girls don’t leave their drinks unattended. Even before the new rule. They’ve seen the adverts. Sat in those assemblies. Listened to the visiting nurse in social studies. Took those free butt-plug things to shove into the neck of a Corona bottle. They’ve got pepper spray and a rape alarm in their handbag. The paranoid generation. Everyone’s a threat. No it’s nothing like that. Let me explain:

Back in year nine biology class we’ve been put into groups. Sam is this gormless looking moron. He’s got this curly hazelnut hair. It looks like an afro of overgrown wiry pubes. He’s got freckles all over his stupid grinning face. Worst of all he’s got this permanently moist bottom lip where his tongue rests. And Tom. He’s the tallest kid in the class. This lanky loudmouths’ trousers are never long enough. You can see his black tennis socks in the gulf between the top of his clumpy Clarkes’ shoes and the hem of his jack-up trousers. The bottom of his trousers are always in perfect condition as they permanently float six inches off the floor. Unlike Sam. The bottom of his trousers are all torn and ripped. His brothers’ old ones. He was the free school meals kind of kid. I couldn’t think of two worse irritants to be consigned with. I’d rather work with the fat kid who pissed himself during a Maths lesson and that lonely girl who mumbles to herself at lunchtime. But there I was. With Beavis and Butthead. We’re doing this experiment. Something about bacteria growth. Something about colonies. I wasn’t listening. I was thirteen. My attention span had peaked during sex education. Now I was staring out the window at the empty playing field. My back aching from sitting on one of those high stools with no backrest where you can’t help but slouch. It had produced a loud metallic scraping noise when I dragged it across the room to sit with these clowns. Sighing as I  made my way across the lab with sluggish reluctance. This experiment required petri dishes filled with gelatine. The stuff vegans check for on the back of food packaging. Collect the dishes from the front of the classroom. Tom volunteers to get them. It doesn’t take long before he throws out a dare.

“eat the jelly”  Of course I refuse. Sam chirps in with his ridiculous lisp. He spits his S’s. “Why not? It’s safe. Didn’t you hear Sir? He said they use it for food and stuff” This bullshit is going to be relentless. I can tell. I cut it short. “Well you eat it then” Tom’s a master of manipulation. “You’re just a pussy, look” He dips his index finger into the colourless gelatinous blob in the dish, swipes a fingertip full, sticks out his pale pink tongue and presses the gloop covered fingertip onto the base sliding it downwards to the tip before snapping it back in his mouth like a lizard that’s caught a fly, slurping on the way in. Sam copies like a performing monkey obeying his master. He takes two fingers worth for added effect. They both chuckle. Tormenting me. Tom winds the crank. “You’re such a pussy”

His sidekick splutters in with

“Yeah you fucking wimp”.

They cluck like deranged chickens. Juvenile. Effective. Giving them such glee. See it in their ecstatic eyes. My pulse rose. My temperature increased. Their little scheme had worked. Inferiority seeped over me. I snatched the last dish from the desktop with my left hand and poked all four digits of my right into the palm sized plastic circle. I Scraped out as much of the odourless jelly in one go and jammed it all into my mouth which had opened so wide to accommodate that it stretched the sides of my jaw. Sucking my fingers on the way out making a loud puckering noise.

“There”

Joy broke across their faces like a swiftly incoming tide. The clucking stopped. The laughing started. Hysterical laughing.

“OH MY GOD HE DID IT”

Heads turned. All eyes on me.

“NO WAY”

Now everyone was laughing. There was a joke but I hadn’t heard the set up.

“Seriously?”

“What a twat”

“That’s gross”

The taste. The burning sensation. Like eating a handful of birdseye chillies blended with the vinegar used to clean ceramic tiles.

“That’s so mean”

Drool pours uncontrollably from my stinging lips. A serrated hacksaw has been shoved down my throat. All I can do is wretch. Warm foamy bubbles of spit spray onto the desk. Drips onto the floor. Flings onto Sarah Cunninghams’ white shirt collar. She screams in disgust. I dash frantically for the sink like a slobbering Basset hound.

“I can’t believe he fell for that”

That’s why he volunteered to get the dishes.

That’s why he took so long.

Hindsight the cruellest tormentor. That spiteful bully had poured hydrochloric acid into the dish. Stood by Chris Jenkins’ desk to tell him all about the joke while the clear jelly absorbed the clear liquid. Invisible contamination. Chris then played Chinese whispers except the message never changed. The whole class waiting for me to shove the punch-line right into my own mouth.

I had to sit on the toilet leaking out acidic diarrhoea for the rest of the afternoon. The mucous membranes of my mouth and throat partially corroded meaning I had a sore throat for about a month. The lips and surrounding skin that had come into contact with my greedy point proving fingers flared up into a dry crimson rash. Then came the rumours. Despite a class of nearly thirty witnesses, Tom, he spread the rumours. I had eaten the poison alright. He took full credit for that. But the rash on my mouth and the hoarse throat; that was something else. That was because I’d sucked off Luke Martin at his house afterschool and had caught herpes from his diseased dick. No matter how ridiculous a lie kids will believe it as long as the humiliation is averted from themselves. Kids would poke the inside of their cheek with their tongue while waving a clenched fist beside their face every time I entered a classroom. Sign language for cocksucker. Try getting a girlfriend when you’re the guy who gave that other nerd a blowjob and caught face rash. Innocent Luke eventually had to see a bullying councillor. I was the punch-line

every.

single.

day.

In this bar. All grown up now. Physically. One Direction are telling us how we’re all young. How to forget about our troubles; just party. This bar is the worst. The kind of pretentious, faux celebrity, hangout where estate agents and bank cashiers pay to be V.I.P for the evening. Grey Goose and roped off booths with rubbery cream plastic leather upholstery. Forty hours a week these part time celebs are hunched over a desk. Commission based. But here they are dapper. Their slim fit blazers have some other guys’ name stitched inside the collar. Hugo, Ralf, Giorgio. Crisp white shirts. Top button done up. Skinny tie dangling down. All this covering an armful of ink. Colourful murals of somebody else’s’ talent. It’s the most interesting thing about them and they had to pay for the privilege. Their ensemble cost a months’ wages. The chunky silver dial with thick metallic chain strap weighing down their wrist; six months’ worth. Cruising around town in a BMW 4 series. On fincance. Monthy direct debit. In a recession you just have to look successful. Image over everything. Tom’s in this bar. No longer the tallest kid in the class. He’s got some job that involves lying for a living. He’s filled himself out down the gym. He’s grown some pecs and shoulders. Coated them with fake tan. His hair’s slicked back. Trimmed short at the sides. It’s been years but when he spots me I’m still the punch-line.

“FACE RASH”

Obligatory fellatio mine. His friends, kitted out in their weekend uniform, all laugh. They don’t even know the joke but they laugh.  There’s this knee high table by the back fire doors. It’s all sticky and filled with bottles and glasses. It’s where guys leave their drinks to go smoke outside. It’s against the law to blow cigarette smoke into the faces of binge drinkers indoors. Bad for health. Only guys leave their drinks here. Girls are too smart. You’ll see a group of girls huddled around this table. Short sparkling dresses that lead the eyes  just below their arse cheeks before material takes over from flesh. Frantically downing a vodka and red bull before heading outside to suck on a Malboro.  Tom stumbles over with his band of merry wankers. He’s got this highball full to the brim with Jack Daniels and coke. He’s ordered two doubles, removed the ice cubes from one glass, and added the contents of the other glass. It’s a quadruple. It clinks against a flute containing the last drips of a girls’ Prosecco as he slams it into the centre of the table adding to the sticky surface of spilt drinks.

The toilets are in a cramped room opposite the fire door. The kind of loos where you’re constantly tense. Looking for the closest surface to grab onto because the floor is that slippery. Beer, piss and water coat the white tiles.  Three urinals hang from the back wall with two cubicles to the left next to a trio of sink basins. The furthest of which has been commandeered by a middle aged black guy in a tuxedo selling sprays of CK one, Chuppa Chup lollies and boxes of Durex.

“No spray no lay” his sales pitch.

Outside in the smokers area you’d breathe steam even if you weren’t puffing out a lungful of carbon monoxide. The kind of bitter cold that makes your face feel like it’s cracking. Even while he’s impressing the bleached blonde hairdresser with tales of his summer shenanigans in Ibiza I estimate that I’ve got five minutes max.  Between  collecting used glasses and emptying the dishwasher the overworked busboy is summoned to rinse sickly sweet smelling bile, heaved out by a insurance underwriter after six Jäger Bombs, from the inside ceramics of a toilet bowl.  He’s left a bottle on the floor. It should be locked away in the chemicals cupboard but he’s too stoned to care. All purpose bathroom and toilet cleaner to flush away thick lumpy vomit or the stubborn skid mark that decorates the back of a bowl. The only artwork on the rectangular plastic canister is a thick black cross on an orange background.

DANGER IRRITANT

This stuff’s so strong you need to wear gloves just to twist open the cap. Three quarters of the JD and Coke splash into the toilet water. I refill it. I even have enough time to top up the cocktail with a little bit of piss. I’m so slapdash I sprinkle a little bit of warm excretion onto my own hand. Wipe my hands on my trousers. I don’t even care. I’m too excited. The potion is back on the table before he’s even had a chance to flick the fading cigarette butt over the metal barrier onto the pavement.

Common symptoms of bleach poisoning include:

  •  Burning throat

Check

  • Severe abdominal pain

Check

  • Vomiting

All over the dance floor. Check

  • Difficulty breathing

Check.

When a guy’s trying to show off he’ll down his drink in one. After a brief nicotine high. Combined with a peroxide blonde with breasts pushed up to her chin whispering explicit details about how she’s going to suck him dry a guy’s going to sink a quadruple JD and coke so fast he won’t taste until it’s halfway down his oesophagus. The busboy called the ambulance.

Treatment for suspected bleach poisoning:

  • Insert a small tube through the nose

Check

  • Empty contents of stomach through tube

The laughter getting sucked out his stomach forcefully in an A&E side room. Check.

  • Endoscopy; a small camera is inserted down the throat to assess any lasting damage to oesophagus and stomach lining.

Who’s deep throating now Tom? Check.

So that’s why they have the new rule. No drinks left unattended. You never know what nutters are about. Not that I go there anymore. The CCTV footage saw me doing it. There’s a poster behind the entrance desk. The image is so blurred it’s impossible to indentify me but still I feel like Billy the Kid. I go to this new place now. Much quieter. No music. The other night I bumped into Sarah Cunningham. The girl I accidently sprayed toxic spit on in biology. We reminisced about school days and she said it’s funny, I’ll never guess who drinks in here most nights; “that Sam kid with the funny lisp”.

Esteban.


For the original essays by Palahniuk click here: http://litreactor.com/essays/36-writing-essays-by-chuck-palahniuk