'He'd put them on when he was a younger and thinner man. They were impossible to move. So there I was with my foot planted in his fucking armpit – not the worst place my foot's ever been, but close – bending my fingernails back trying to get this ring up past the rolls of fat that'd grown up around it during his days of wine and women – asking myself whether I shouldn't just cut the damn finger off.' Eliza now looked like someone who'd eaten a bad oyster. Jack decided to move on hastily. 'When who should show up but brother Bob, with a look of self-righteous horror on his face, like a vicar who's just surprised an altar boy masturbating in the sacristy – or like you, for that matter – all dressed up in his little drummer boy outfit – carrying a message – frightfully urgent of course – from Churchill to one of King Looie's generals. He stops to favor me with a lecture about military honor. ‘Ach, you don't really believe that stuff, do you?' I ask. ‘Until today I didn't, Jack, but if you could see what I've seen just now – the feats that those brothers in arms, John Churchill and the Duke of Monmouth and Louis Hector de Villars, have performed – you'd believe.''