A bedchamber in Galilee. Morning.
Oh... what a night.
Oh my stomach. That's not good.
Ow my head. That's bad too. I wonder if it's light yet?
Ow ow ow. My eyes. My eyes. Maybe I'll keep them closed.
I tell you, night like last night - I'm going to hear all about it from John the Baptist.
John the Baptist. Hang on. Something about John the Baptist. What about John the Baptist? Last time I saw him - what was wrong?
Oh. Yeah. That. Great.
Always get carried away, don't I. Start off having a couple of drinks - end the night killing a prophet.
So... the wine. It's always the wine. A lot of wine. Ten - twelve? Too much. An unwise amount of wine.
All the lads round, of course. And Salome. Oh yeah. Salome. Nice piece of stuff, Salome. Shame she's my niece. After all, I'm not an Egyptian.
Still, a man can't help himself after a few jars, can he? Nice little sexy dancer, wine buzzing in your head - everyone does something a bit silly in those circumstances.
Although killing a prophet is hardly sticking a traffic cone on your head. Whatever that means.
Right, no more. From now on, I'm not getting drunk. I'm not showing off to my silly mates. I'm not sleeping with relatives. I'm not lusting after Salome. And I will not - repeat not - be allowing any more prophets to be put to death.
Unless, of course, they're really awkward.