As an extraterrestrial anthropologist I have spent many a lifetime as one of you—always a man I might add, never wanting to be a member of that off-prodded gender we so adore. Recently, over drinks with a lady friend, I was stricken with deja vu. While the Viking Hammerlock is not combat, it is a functional adjunct to a warrior’s second favorite pastime. Also, in the interest of good taste, and knowing that our lady readers do not read from the Ancient Combat Page, I have hidden this bit of advice for dealing with the distaff gender in plain sight as it were.

Whilst residing in Iceland some 1,000 years past consulting on the recording of those people’s Sagas, I made the acquaintance of this chieftain who did most of his reaving behind closed doors. One of the perks of transmigratory fieldwork among human kind is my ability to tap into the lessons of lives lost, of course, only when my mind is jogged by a deep racial memory.

The drinks I was recently sharing with a female friend then brought to mind a woman, who brought to mind Raggar and his hammerlock, thus resulting in this paper, which I intend to submit to the Nobel Committee next year.

Nearly a decade past, not long after being fired by yet another mate, I found myself crashing in Ajay’s girl cave. This alternatively living lady permitted me to set up my gladiatorial barracks in the back room of her condo, where I did occasionally entertain visiting female dignitaries.

My favorite was a certain Mrs. Bedwrecker. This lady usually brought along a hot cappuccino, often arriving in nothing but a heavy coat and high heels. She also provided me with alcoholic beverages and large plastic ware encased meals—which Raggar would have been most jealous of. The thing that most commended Mrs. Bedwrecker to the unattached ETA was the fact that she was the property of another man, and therefore became his concern where all of the least pleasurable things in life were concerned. I was therefore not required to lay aside my sword for the odious business of haggling over furniture, or to demean my sword arm arranging the drapery, or to engage in that most pointless pursuit of slaying grass at her behest.

There was, however, a problem with my gladiatorial accommodations. You see, my single piece of furniture consisted of a mattress, and the lady liked to sit and sip her molten cappuccino as she plied me with liquor and insist I dazzle her with the contents of my millennial mind. We settled the cappuccino issue by agreeing that she might seat herself across my hips and gaze down upon me while we conversed.

I was, however stymied, when trying to arrange for my own drinks without unseating Mrs. Bedwrecker who very much preferred to keep her seat and wished with equal sincerity to render me helpless through drink. I, at first, resisted these attempts on my sobriety, afraid that I might be compromised Samson-like and placed under the power of my enemies. However, I reminded myself that I, in this wretched life, occupy no position of importance, find myself woefully lacking in noteworthy enemies, and was only in danger of being delivered up to the attentions of this very agreeable lady.

‘What to do?’ I thought.

Then I recalled Raggar’s technique for the ergonomic use of serving wenches from a prone position!

Here it is my fellow warriors. And even if you be a Neanderthal gnawing on the haunch of meat proffered by your seated lady, or some civilized sot being fed grapes by your slave girl, or a hordesman enjoying fermented mare’s milk from the scented hand of your latest booty, this technique should prevent you from choking Attila-like on your particular beverage of relish, without unseating your dutiful servant.

Sit up.

Bend your shield arm behind your lower back as a brace.

Reach out with your sword arm to take over management of your beverage so that your wench might busy herself with more pressing concerns.

Lean back upon the brace of your shield arm, and enjoy a draught or three while you enjoy the show.

If, my friend, you find yourself mounted by one of these willful verbal amazons that go by the disconcerting name of ‘feminist’, heed me. Mrs. Bedwrecker was a member of this female tribe of disputatious scholars. I bid you learn from my misfortune and not your own. If, when employing the Viking hammerlock in pursuit of such agreeably seated company, you find yourself recalling that Raggar’s women were known as wenches, do not make the mistake of referring to your Amazonian mistress by way of this sobriquet, particularly if her cappuccino is still piping hot—as such drinking engagements are typically pursued shirtless.

You have been warned.

Extraterrestrially yours, Regal M-116-S