On this day in 1593 Christopher Marlowe (playwright, Shakespeare’s buddy and sexy Tudor stud muffin) went for a pint in a Deptford tavern with a couple of mates. He never left that boozer, ending up dead on the floor with a knife hilt-deep in his eye. The two pals claimed Chris had kicked off over the bar tab and attacked one of them. The landlord pretty much agreed. But theories abound the whole thing was planned (there’s circumstantial evidence Marlowe was wrapped up in England’s spy ring, James Bond in tights). Who knows? Given they were drinking and every man in the nation walked around with blades like we do smartphones, I’m tempted to believe the official story.
Anyway, here’s to Christopher Marlowe.