‘Be fair to me, wife, I’ve had a reeking shit day being a Thaine in early medieval Scotland, trying to extort rent from a belligerent peasantry and hosting swan dinners for visiting French “dignitaries”. What’s more, these three old trollops keep following me about mumbling things. I just want to come home to a fish supper and some wholesome bed-sport in our drafty four-poster. Is that really so much to ask from a housewife in the eleventh century? I can’t be doing with your “I’m not going to put out until you commit regicide” back-chat this evening. Get with the fucking times, woman. Know your place.’

Macbeth, Cupar, 1039.