After spending a number of very enjoyable days completing quests, defeating trolls and what have you, I decided to settle in to my new house and meet the neighbours. After a few ales at the local, I got chatting to a buxom barmaid and before long, I was asking for her hand in marriage. We quickly moved into a little house opposite the local blacksmiths and decked it out with lavish furniture, with me sticking a Troll Eye directly above the master bed, purely because it’s my bloody house and I’ll do what I like etc.

I then celebrated consummation my fictional marriage in the presence of a huge disembodied eyeball by running out into to the square and shredding a lute solo in front of an increasingly enthusiastic crowd of peasants, before following it up with several loud, extended, sonorous farts, which were aimed alternately in the faces of women, tramps, and children.

My performance completely enraptured the crowd: one gentleman named George in particular seemed to really enjoy and admire everything I was doing. I mean really enjoy and admire it. Pretty soon he hanging around the blacksmiths where I worked, oohing and ahhing my admittedly considerable welding skills, and flirting with me outrageously when I was just trying to get a lunchtime pie.

I like to think that in that situation I’d be a liberal, benevolent kind of guy, so I tolerated his affections, aggressive though they were, for a little while. After a while though it just got ridiculous – the final straw was when he followed me into my bedroom and loudly whinged, “When are we going to get ENGAGED?” in front of my startled wife.

At first I tried to get rid of him casually. First I tried to outright dismiss him, as in, “Could you please stay right here and not move, while I go over there.” No luck. I made various rude gestures, in a attempt to eradicate all the good will I’d built up with him: pelvic thrusts, the finger, farting in his face, the whole biscuit. Still, no luck – only this time I got landed with a fine from the local law enforcement for ‘anti-social behaviour’.

Naturally, I was at the end of my tether. After a few days contemplation I visited my local on a crisp winter night, before leaving the local pub in the early hours with my admirer in tow. I turned around and asked him to follow me. “Where are we going?” he asked excitedly, as I led him down the steps of the pub cellar. I ignored him, and stopped walking. He trundled aimlessly in front of me and faced the filthy brick basement wall, hands on hips. “Brilliant!” he cried.

You poor moron, I thought. I raised my crossbow shakily into the air, and held it poised in place for what seemed like an eternity. Was I really about to do this? This how I deal with all my problems now? Maybe the copious number of imaginary ales I’d recently consumed was affecting my judgement… Eventually I managed to gather some composure. I mumbled quietly “Tell me about the farm, George.“ (Note: I didn’t actually say this) It was then I shot him, squarely in the back of the head, which promptly sent him hurling forwards and into the air in a grotesque somersault, before landing painfully in a sorry pile of splayed limbs.

I then became aware of the deafening silence that had suddenly pervaded the cellar, which seemed exponentially colder and emptier. My loyal dog sat still next to me, his tail wagging thoughtfully. Loaded with fear and loathing I slowly crossed the cellar floor, where I took one long last look at my tragic admirer. It was then that I took a few seconds to ruminate on the perverse contradiction that characterises the truest forms of love. Once the fragile membrane that protects our hopes, thoughts and dreams is permeated it transmogrifies almost immediately into an impenetrable shell of self-delusion and denial. Ostensibly, the purpose of this transformation is to protect and preserve the romantic spirit before it dissolves in a grey pool of cynicism and rationalism, but instead it just obfuscates the parts of our lives that are worth fighting for, trapping us inside a hopeless emotional cocoon of our own construction that serves only to delay the inevitable, crippling agony that accompanies brutal, unvarnished truth; like standing on a piece of glass when you’ve already got pins and needles.

With all that swimming in my head, I managed to force a wobbly smile onto my face. After all, there were kingdoms to be conquered, villains to be slain, and lutes to play – people needed me. It would be best for everyone to forget that this whole sorry incident had ever taken place. I finally sheathed my weapon, and said in a croaky whisper “Goodnight…sweet prince”, before farting one final, booming fart, right on his head, for two whole minutes.

Fable 2 review to follow soon.