Parc d'Victoire

Sir Mick of Gayfer landed in the dead of night in the carpark of the Hoddle Street flats. It was lucky it was night as the journey through the tear in the time space contiuum had torn his chain mail and other knightly accoutrement from his body.

Sir Mick was not a man given to self reflection. Contrary to the philosoper's maxim, he had lived the unexamined life. So it was that he didn't bother himself too much about the fact that he had been untimely ripped from his own world and set about finding something to wear.

He had little patience for those who dwelt on the past. It was like when he was on the Crusades with the Errant Knight Sir Campbell of Brown. The feisty little barrel on legs held a grudge against Sir Matthew The Diver, a long time foe.

And how Sir Campbell had droned on and on about what he would do to Sir Matthew upon their return from seizing Christendom's holiest places from the hands of the Saracen.

After they had sacked Constantinople:

"Oh by the Shroud of Our Lord, I shall runneth through Sir Matthew with mine lance when I do return to castle."

As Antioch lay in flames, her citizens either slain or sold unto slavery:

"YEA VERILY! I keep mine sword sharpened upon the dark heart of the Jews so it may pierce the hide of the mangy cur Sir Matthew 'pon my return!"

By the campfire as Saladin's emissarries sought parley with the Templars outside Jerusalem itself:

"Hear me now, I shall return from this holy work and seize Sir Matthew and torture him for many days in my filthiest dungeon and then, just as he thinks death's cold grip arrives to bring him peace from my infernal torments, I shall let him rest and then when he hath regained his strength, LO! I shall return unto the fray with the heated spikes and the sharpened nails and all the instruments of pain I can muster!"

It really was fucking tiresome.

So without further ado Sir Mick he set about finding some garb to wear. Luckily for him, a local heroin enthusiast had partken in perhaps a bit to much of his chosen tipple and lay prone in the bushes.

"Ah," Sir Mick thought to himself, "This serf has been waylaid by bandits, or has fallen victim to a sorceror. I shall remove his rags and take them as my own."

Having donned the knock off three stripe Adidas tracksuit and Collingwood polo shirt so common to the bottom feeders of Melbourne's criminal underclass, Sir Mick set off to find his bearings.

He was immediately startled by cars racing along Hoddle Street.

"What manner of witchery is this, yon devil's chariot?" he mused, but being made of stern stuff, he simply kept a wary eye on the squat iron horses as they sped about their business.

After a mile or so he began to grow weary. He needed rest and victuals. But there seemed no welcoming glade where he could rest his head. Then he saw the sign that gladdened his heart.

Victoria Park.

It was the wrong around but the meaning was unmistakeable. It was his own father's estate, Parc d'Victoire, named after a particularly successful campaign against the rebellious Walloons in the north. He set forth.

He arrived to find a vast expanse of grass. The jousting lists! Ah, the memories he had of the afternoons spent there, seeking the favour of a fair maiden through his skill in the martial sports.

Then there were the games, the jesters and the fools.

He strode to the centre of the grass and took in the scene. Yes, this was a place where he felt at home.

He saw in his mind's eye a great throng of unwashed serfs and peasants gathered to witness the spectacle, heard their jeering and hooting as the painted cretins danced for their amusement, their shrill cackle during the goading of the blackamoors.

Yes, this Victoria Park, this was a place he could call home. He laid down his tired head in the centre of the field and slept the sleep of the content.