The Seventh Scroll — I Am Falconetti

It was a lament that gathered volume in educated quarters in the twilight years of 20th century England. How, wondered those who fancied themselves still capable of wondering, had the nation of Darwin and Newton, Shakespeare and Chaucer, Lawrence and Bader, Payne and Pankhurst, Cook and Shackleton, become the nation of Chris Evans?

Few things terrify an unsteady imperial ruler like an popular local demagogue. General Cahill has little in common with the wine-sipping middle classes of his damn fiefdom, but he shares their mistaken belief that this apparently lightest of entertainers is no more than a preening ginger nitwit, as disposable as he is irritating. In order to assert his authority, and perhaps to curry some favour with that minority of England's population who still believe they are people capable of being more than an indentured studio audience, General Cahill orders the deeply misunderstood celebrity burnt at the stake.

You cannot, Cahill reasons, like many wise rulers before him, make an omelette without cracking a few eggs — and you cannot, Cahill sighs, as the Morris Men hoist their torches, reconstruct a culture without incinerating a few disc jockeys.

The condemned man's last testament, one of the more significant sections of the Scrolls, demonstrates the depth of Cahill's error. With nothing to lose, Evans submits himself nobly and heroically to his fate, a vessel of our frailties dying not for our sins, as hardly anyone can be bothered to sin any more, but for something much more pernicious and corrosive — our amusement.

Pending a decent interval, and the attendant bureaucratic formalities, Evans will be elevated to the sainthood that is the very least he is due. In the meantime, you'd think an Irishman would know better than to create martyrs, but, like many other imported suzerains before him, Cahill has doomed himself to be haunted by a ghost of his own creation.

Lyrics submitted by BrutalBart

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