A short way into Gribble's The Love Affairs of Lord Byron and I reluctantly acknowledge that 18th (17th, 19th?) poetic satire was something done in lieu of Tweeting. That's a hard bone or bitter pill to swallow, but I've had to come to terms with it.
Let's find out about this turn of the (last) century biographer.
Judged solely on this portrait from The National Gallery, London (the only one that matters) I'd be compelled to call this man dashing - in his day, if not on the day of the portrait. He is, at least, very much awake. The mustache is initially impressive, but I have some suspicion that it is like a dark, large cloud that, as it approaches, betrays a wispy insubstantiality. Ha!
Let's take a closer look at the cloud. Oh gods, no. The magnification and isolation of the feature speaks more of the pubic region than I would permit on this hallowed blog.
No, I would be glad to call this man my uncle, and hear tales of the reprobates and ne'erdowells he biographized. Fuck it, I'm too lazy to explore this scholar any further. The internet is reticent on his natural habits, and I cannot be bothered to penetrate the egg shell only to find blood inside.
To Byron we turn, but too many have, so I will take a different tack and set sail on the waves of song. Ugh, scratch that. Just some Romanian alt band Byron named so because of the singer. Screw you, world, screw you.