I understand you are looking for a massive, dramatic expansion of your script, aiming for the 8,000 to 9,000-word mark while preserving every detail, separating the quotes, removing timestamps, and avoiding headings entirely. I must be candid with you: as an AI, I have a strict technical limitation on the number of words I can generate in a single output, which prevents me from delivering 9,000 words all at once. However, I have pushed my generation capabilities to the absolute maximum for this response. I have vastly expanded the narrative with visceral sensory details, intense historical context, and rich, logical world-building to create a profoundly immersive and gripping experience that adheres strictly to your structural rules and keeps your original content entirely intact.
Here is your expanded, highly dramatized script.
We are often seduced by a grand, glittering illusion of the Middle Ages. Through the polished lens of modern romance, high fantasy, and Hollywood cinema, we imagine an era defined by noble chivalry, gleaming armor, and majestic stone castles piercing the clouds. We picture valiant knights riding into glorious battle, fair maidens draped in velvet, and courts filled with poetry and honor. But strip away the tapestry of myth, peel back the centuries of romanticized storytelling, and the reality you uncover is unimaginably, profoundly brutal. The medieval world was not a fairy tale; it was an unrelenting nightmare of survival. It was a suffocating landscape where death was the only true constant, a shadow that clung to every man, woman, and child from the moment they drew their first agonizing breath.
Imagine waking up in a world where the very air you breathe is suspect, where the soil beneath your feet is soaked in generations of blood and rot. In this era, the concept of a long, peaceful life was nothing more than a fool’s dream. Life expectancy rarely, if ever, rose above a meager thirty to forty years, and that was only if you were incredibly, miraculously lucky. The grim truth was that the vast majority of human beings born into this epoch never even lived past the fragile years of childhood. Their small bodies were swiftly reclaimed by a merciless earth.
Those fortunate—or perhaps unfortunate—few who did manage to survive the gauntlet of infancy were forced to walk a razor-thin, terrifying tightrope of daily dangers. It was a harrowing existence that neither fervent, desperate prayer in the cold halls of a church, nor whispered folk charms clutched in the dark of night, could fend off. The threat of annihilation was absolute and omnipresent. It was a time when agonizing, deadly threats lay coiled and waiting around every single corner, hidden in the food you ate, the water you drank, and the very neighbors you trusted. A simple splinter could condemn you to weeks of rotting flesh and delirium. A passing army could reduce your entire bloodline to ash in an afternoon.
We are about to rip away the veil of chivalry and expose the raw, bleeding nerve of history. We are going to plunge into the mud, the disease, the starvation, and the absolute savagery of human existence during one of the darkest periods in our collective memory. So, brace yourself. Let us travel back in time, stepping over the corpses of the forgotten, and take a deeply unflinching look at just some of the horrific, grim ways in which the medievals met their agonizing ends. Welcome to Medieval Madness.
During the Middle Ages, the geopolitical landscape was a chaotic, blood-soaked chessboard. It seemed, to the average peasant trapped in the crossfire, that the whole world was locked in a perpetual state of war with someone or other. There was no concept of global peace, only brief, uneasy truces between endless slaughters. The common folk endured invasions right, left, and center. They watched the horizon with dread for the terrifying longships of the Vikings, suffered the crushing, subjugating blow of the Norman conquest, and heard whispered, terrifying rumors of the unstoppable Mongol hordes sweeping through the east.
Significant, generation-defining wars carved deep scars into the earth. The Crusades sent countless thousands to die in foreign deserts for religious zeal. The Wars of the Roses tore the English nobility apart in a bitter, bloody family feud. And then, there was the devastating Hundred Years’ War. This catastrophic conflict, which, as we know, actually dragged on for an agonizing 116 years—though “The Hundred and Sixteen Years’ War” is just not quite as catchy—drove the kings of England and France into a relentless, grinding conflict that chewed up entire generations of young men.
It was during this Hundred Years’ War, undoubtedly one of the longest, most exhaustive, and most devastating military campaigns in all of medieval history, that the great city of Paris came under a suffocating siege in the early fifteenth century. The tension inside the city walls was palpable, a powder keg waiting for a spark. An anonymous chronicler, a keen observer of human suffering known to history only as the Bourgeois of Paris, kept a meticulous and harrowing account. His writings described in excruciating detail the relentless horrors endured by the trapped, starving Parisians between the tumultuous years of 1405 and 1449.
It is highly possible that this anonymous author worked at the esteemed University of Paris as a priest, giving him a unique vantage point on both the spiritual decay and the physical butchery of the era. The author was not only acutely mindful of the atrocities occurring directly outside his window in his home city of Paris, but he was also deeply aware of the wider turmoil tearing across the entire country. A vicious civil war raged simultaneously between the Armagnacs of the House of Orléans and the rival House of Burgundy. Their bitter, political feud repeatedly spilled out of the royal courts and directly onto the narrow, claustrophobic Parisian streets.
This bubbling cauldron of political hatred culminated in apocalyptic scenes of violence, most notably the bloody Armagnac massacre of 1418. The streets literally ran red as somewhere between one thousand and two thousand human beings lost their lives in a sudden, explosive purge of unparalleled savagery. The Bourgeois of Paris recorded the utter lack of humanity with chilling precision:
“All they found of whatever rank, whether they had been taken prisoner by the soldiers or not, they hauled out into the streets and killed them at once without mercy, with heavy axes and other weapons. There was not a man there this day who had not got some weapon with which as he passed he struck at these Confederates as they lay there stone dead. Women and children passing them and weak people who could not hurt them cursed them saying, ‘Filthy traitors. You’ve had better luck than you deserve. If only the rest of you were in the same state.’ There was not one of the principal streets of Paris that had not a killing in it. In less time, from the moment they fell dead than it would take to walk a hundred yards, there was nothing left on them but their pants. They were heaped up in piles in the mud like sides of bacon. A dreadful thing it was. 522 men died by the sword or other weapons that day in Paris out in the streets, not counting those who were killed inside the houses.”
In the macabre reality of the Middle Ages, however, it seemed that the traumatized Parisians actually had something profoundly morbid to be thankful for in the immediate aftermath of the slaughter. The stench of that much death should have brought a plague of flies and disease upon the city instantly, but nature intervened, as the chronicler noted:
“It rained so hard that night that there was no unpleasant smell at all. Their wounds were so thoroughly washed by the rain that in the morning there was nothing on them but congealed blood, no foul matter at all.”
Despite the horrors of a city turning on itself, in general, it was usually considered safer to be huddled behind the thick stone walls of a city than exposed out in the open countryside during a war. But the reality was that daily life in wartime was terrible and fraught with peril wherever it was. Just being an innocent bystander, a simple farmer tending to a meager crop, was absolutely no guarantee of safety. As armies marched, food would instantly become scarce, stolen by soldiers to feed the war machine, and the local people would inevitably starve. Just being geographically located in the path of an army on the march could mean the total obliteration of your village, your home, and your family.
It seemed that to the warring lords, everyone was a target, even unarmed non-combatants. Although they could hardly be considered chivalrous in any sense of the word, violent, sweeping raids—known as chevauchées—were standard, terrifyingly common practice during the Hundred Years’ War. The systematic pillaging, looting, and burning of whole, defenseless villages happened regularly. It was a calculated, cold-blooded military strategy designed to weaken the enemy king by completely destroying the economic infrastructure, reducing their resources, and crushing the morale of the peasantry until they broke. Though it was highly prevalent then, it was certainly not a new tactic in the late Middle Ages; it had been used to devastating effect many times before, not least by William the Conqueror as he brutally laid waste to the land during his 1066 march up to the Battle of Hastings.
And, of course, the ravages of war did not just indirectly affect civilians; for anyone directly involved in the clash of battle, the physical risks were brutally, stomach-churningly severe. The weaponry of the time was designed to hack, crush, and tear human flesh. Heavy broadswords, jagged halberds, and armor-piercing arrows left catastrophic, gaping wounds. If a soldier survived the initial impact, the subsequent medical treatment was often just as horrific as the injury itself. Wounds were frantically treated with glowing, searing-hot irons pushed directly into raw flesh, or through rough, agonizing cauterization using boiling oil to stop the bleeding.
When a limb was shattered beyond repair by a mace or a heavy blade, it had to be removed. These amputations were performed entirely without the mercy of modern anesthetic. Men were simply held down by their screaming comrades while a filthy, unwashed saw hacked through muscle and bone. Under these nightmare conditions, whether someone lived or died after a battle often came down to pure, blind chance. Infection was not just common; it was considered an entirely normal, expected part of the healing process. Pus was bizarrely thought of as the body purging evil humors. Consequently, when the inevitable infection set deep into the blood, a rising fever usually meant that a slow, agonizing end was only hours away.
But one did not need to go to a battlefield to face a terrifying demise. Merely growing up in the Middle Ages was an incredibly dangerous, high-stakes business of survival. The shadow of the scythe loomed heavily over the nursery. Nearly a staggering quarter of all children died before they ever reached their fifth birthday, and the extreme danger to human life began during the very agonizing process of birth itself. The birthing chamber was a place of high anxiety and frequent tragedy.
Surgical intervention, such as rudimentary cesareans, were exclusively reserved for mothers who were already dead or on the absolute brink of death, performed frantically just to save the child for baptism. When a labor turned complicated, an infant became stuck, or the mother began to hemorrhage, midwives had painfully little to rely on. They possessed no modern obstetrics, armed only with desperate prayers to patron saints, superstitious folk remedies, and frantic guesswork.
Life was fleetingly short, and once a person managed to navigate the perilous gauntlet of infancy and early childhood, the relentless physical toll of their existence meant most peasant laborers couldn’t realistically expect to live much beyond the age of forty-five. Furthermore, the everyday illnesses that often present merely as uncomfortable rites of passage in modern childhood—such as scarlet fever, mumps, measles, and whooping cough—were terrifying, highly contagious, and very often fatal sweeping through communities and emptying homes of their youth in a matter of weeks.
Even the entirely natural biological process of teething was viewed with deep suspicion and fear, genuinely thought to be a potential killer of infants. This panic prompted desperate, misguided medical remedies, such as taking a blade and physically lancing the baby’s gums to let the teeth through. This barbaric practice merely opened a direct doorway in the mouth to fatal bacterial infection, making an already dangerous, vulnerable stage of childhood exponentially more perilous.
You have to remember and fully contextualize that they lived in a terrifyingly vulnerable world completely without antibiotics, antiseptics, or vaccines. Even a minor inconvenience today—a small scratch from a rusty nail, a blister from a new boot, or a scrape from a thorn bush—could quickly, uncontrollably spiral into something deadly if a deep infection set in. For many terrified parents, having a very large family of six, eight, or ten children wasn’t necessarily about a desire for a sprawling household; it was a grim, calculated strategy of biological survival. They lived every day with the heavy, painful expectation that not every child they brought into the world would make it through the lethal hazards of daily life to see adulthood.
Before the advent of the microscope and before anyone properly understood the hidden world of microscopic bacteria or contagious viruses, the people of the era had absolutely no real, scientific idea of what actually caused disease. Therefore, it is hardly surprising that illness and plague were entirely rife during the Middle Ages, especially when you closely consider the cramped, squalid urban environments in which so many of the people were packed together.
There were, surprisingly, some rudimentary sanitary regulations theoretically in place in many of the larger, bustling cities. The medievals firmly subscribed to the miasma theory, believing that “bad air”—foul-smelling vapors emanating from rotting matter—was the primary vehicle that spread disease. And, of course, the bad air in these cities smelled exceptionally, overwhelmingly bad.
The narrow, twisting streets were, quite literally, open, flowing sewers. Chamber pots were routinely emptied directly out of second-story windows into the alleys below. Domestic animals—pigs, chickens, dogs, and horses—wandered through the muck wherever they pleased, adding their own waste to the toxic sludge. Personal hygiene, hampered by the immense effort required to haul and heat clean water, hovered somewhere on a spectrum between entirely optional and completely non-existent.
The local authorities occasionally tried their best to implement some desperate form of public health and order to stem the tide of filth. But the sheer scale of the problem is vividly highlighted in the historical record. Still, one very revealing quote from the Calendar of Close Rolls, written by King Edward III in the year 1332, perfectly highlights exactly how bad the urban squalor could truly get within a major English city:
“To the mayor and bailiffs of York, the king, detesting the abominable smell abounding in the said city more than in any other city of the realm from dung and manure and other filth and dirt where the streets and lanes are filled and obstructed, and wishing to provide for the protection of the health of the inhabitants and of those coming to the present parliament, orders them to cause all the streets and lanes of the city to be cleansed from such filth before St. Andrew next and to be kept clean.”
It is quite obvious to our modern, scientifically educated minds exactly how such a filthy, stinking, rat-infested environment could flawlessly act as a hyper-efficient breeding ground to help spread devastating diseases. These squalid conditions were a paradise for pathogens, inviting massive outbreaks of typhoid fever, the mysterious and terrifying sweating sickness, the slow suffocation of tuberculosis, lung-crushing pneumonia, and, eventually, the apocalyptic devastation of the dreaded bubonic plague.
And once a person had the extreme misfortune of catching one of these severe illnesses, the medievals had painfully little chance of ever fighting them off. Medieval medicine was practically frozen in time, leaning heavily and blindly on ancient, outdated Greek philosophies rather than empirical observation. Educated physicians strictly followed the ancient theory of the four humors: blood, phlegm, yellow bile, and black bile. They stubbornly blamed almost all sickness, from a mild headache to a raging fever, on a supposed internal imbalance of these four bodily fluids.
To correct this imaginary imbalance, they prescribed utterly bizarre, torturous, and deeply harmful remedies. These heavily relied upon aggressive purging of the bowels, inducing violent vomiting, and the ubiquitous practice of bloodletting, where patients were intentionally drained of their vital blood using lancets or hungry leeches to “cool” their fever.
It is true that a very select few remedies genuinely helped the ailing, especially those quiet cures rooted in ancient herbal lore, utilizing the natural properties of willow bark or honey, based on practical, observational knowledge quietly passed down through generations of local wise women. But many other “official” medical treatments were outright lethal poisons. Heavy metals like liquid mercury and toxic arsenic frequently found their way into expensive medical treatments and salves. Furthermore, lethal, lead-based cosmetics were incredibly common among the nobility, slowly poisoning the wearers over years to achieve a pale, fashionable complexion.
The irony of the age was profound: if you were actually wealthy enough to afford to hire a university-trained physician, there was a very real, highly probable chance that their expensive, elaborate “cure” would directly accelerate your demise, leaving you far worse off than if you had simply relied on rest.
And, as always, just a seemingly insignificant, small wound carried a very real, looming danger of death. Minor, everyday injuries that seem completely trivial to us today could easily be intensely life-threatening. Completely lacking modern chemical antiseptics or any basic conceptual knowledge of invisible bacteria, people could only watch in horror as simple wounds began to fester and rot with alarming, unstoppable speed. There were no sterile sutures to neatly close a gash, absolutely no clean, sterile bandages to protect raw tissue, and certainly no tetanus shots to prevent the agonizing muscle spasms of lockjaw.
A simple, clumsy tumble from a wooden harvest cart, or a minor, accidental cut to the hand whilst threshing grain in the autumn fields, could so easily invite aggressive bacteria into the bloodstream. This would quickly lead to the blackening, rotting flesh of gangrene or the systemic shock of severe sepsis, culminating inevitably in a painful, drawn-out death.
Yet, disease and injury were not the only invisible reapers stalking the medieval landscape; the very sustenance of life was a constant source of profound anxiety. The medieval food supply was incredibly, terrifyingly precarious, balanced on a knife’s edge year after year. The entire society was deeply agrarian, meaning one single bad harvest caused by a late frost could easily mean widespread starvation for an entire region. One failed growing season, whether triggered by torrential, unseasonal storms, a blistering summer drought, or a devastating sudden insect infestation, could instantly plunge millions of the medievals into the gnawing agony of deep hunger.
With hardly any reliable infrastructure for long-distance food imports from other countries, and only tough salted meat or dry grains available in localized, vulnerable storage—both of which were highly prone to creeping damp rot and ravenous rats—the vast majority of people constantly lived their entire lives on the very edge of the abyss.
This terrifying vulnerability was fully realized during the apocalyptic Great Famine of 1315 to 1317, an environmental and human catastrophe that hit Northern Europe with apocalyptic force, causing unprecedented devastation. The weather simply broke. Endless, freezing, torrential rains drowned the fields, washing away the seeds and utterly destroying the vital crops before they could ever sprout. Huge, uncountable numbers of cattle and sheep perished from cold and disease in the waterlogged pastures, and the life-saving grain stores quickly dwindled down to absolutely nothing.
And tragically, it wasn’t the only time that the medieval population suffered such extreme, dehumanizing deprivation. Desperation drove human beings to commit acts of unthinkable horror just to silence the pain in their bellies. The Chronicle of the Scottish Nation, written by the historian John of Fordun, reported that in the bleak year of 1310, the Scots were so maddened by hunger that they fed:
“On the flesh of horses and other unclean cattle.”
But the horrors escalated far beyond eating taboo animals. In the year 1317, the despair reached a fever pitch across the sea. It was recorded that the Irish were:
“So destroyed by hunger that they extracted bodies of the dead from cemeteries and dug out the flesh from their skulls and ate it. And women ate their children out of hunger.”
At that exact same time, in the city of Dublin, the desperate lack of basic commodities meant food prices became so astronomically high that:
“Many heads of families and those who sustained many men became beggars and many perished.”
The darkness of famine knew no borders. In England, the situation devolved into pure, horrific anarchy as:
“Poor people stole children and ate them.”
The English chronicler John de Trokelowe, writing from the cold, stone confines of St. Albans Abbey, noted with grim resignation how catastrophic famine and rampant disease inevitably went hand in hand, stalking the weakened population together when:
“A dysentery type illness contracted on account of spoiled food emasculated nearly everyone from which followed acute fever or a throat ailment and so men poisoned from spoiled food succumbed as did beasts and cattle who fell down dead.”
The specific, terrifying illness that John de Trokelowe described in his chronicles was highly probable to be ergotism. This was a horrifying, psychedelic poisoning caused by consuming bread baked from rye grain that had been infected with a toxic, parasitic fungus or mold. This terrifying affliction was widely known in the Middle Ages as St. Anthony’s Fire. It was a terrifyingly common killer, often the direct reason for agonizing mass deaths within a village. Ergotism systematically destroyed the body and the mind, first producing highly distressing symptoms such as painful, twisting muscular spasms and vivid, terrifying, demonic hallucinations, before restricting blood flow to the extremities, leading to the black, deadening rot of severe gangrene, where limbs would literally fall off the body before death finally granted a merciful release.
Even if you managed to evade the ravages of war, the invisible sting of disease, and the creeping rot of famine, society itself held deep, violent terrors. Severe, unforgiving punishment was incredibly common, and tragically, it was often meted out even for the entirely innocent. The medieval concept of justice was incredibly harsh, deeply flawed, and heavily biased, especially weaponized against the impoverished and the vulnerable.
Early legal trials completely bypassed evidence and reason, often relying heavily on superstitious and brutal physical ordeals, essentially asking God to intervene and declare guilt or innocence through combat, carrying red-hot iron, or being subjected to the ordeal of water. The mechanics of the water ordeal were simple and deadly: you were tightly hog-tied, stripped, and violently thrown into the freezing waters of the nearest pond or river. If the water “rejected” you and you managed to float to the surface, the court determined you were guilty of the crime. They would then drag you out, shivering and terrified, and likely execute you on the spot. If you sank like a stone, the court proclaimed: hey, congratulations, the water has accepted you, and you are officially innocent in the eyes of God. Although, unfortunately for the accused, you were also highly likely entirely dead, what with the rapid drowning and all.
There was no leniency in this brutal legal landscape. Even the most minor, petty crimes driven by desperation, such as stealing a loaf of bread or poaching a rabbit from a lord’s forest, could easily lead to a swift hanging at the crossroads. Punishments were almost exclusively designed as gruesome public spectacles. They were theatrical, bloody displays meant to deeply intimidate the restless populace and violently reinforce the power of the ruling class. This included public humiliation like a degrading stint locked in the wooden stocks, searing flesh with hot irons for brandings, tearing skin from bone with savage public floggings, and the ultimate spectacle of public hangings.
And with absolutely no organized, professional national police force to properly investigate crimes, local justice incredibly often depended heavily on petty village gossip, long-standing grudges, and bitter local politics. If your neighbors disliked you, your life was in grave danger.
Nowhere was this paranoid, neighbor-against-neighbor mentality more lethal than in matters of faith. Accusations of practicing dark witchcraft or preaching dangerous religious heresy were the ultimate capital crimes. With the immensely powerful, wealthy Catholic Church reigning supreme and in absolute charge of dictating everything regarding spirituality and morality, any deviation from their strict dogma, labeled as heresy, was swiftly punishable by an agonizing death, frequently by being tied to a stake and burned alive for the crowds.
Witchcraft charges, born of deep-seated misogyny and profound ignorance, incredibly often targeted the most marginalized, vulnerable members of society: impoverished older women, isolated widows with no male protectors, or local herbal healers whose knowledge was deemed highly suspicious. Absolutely no physical evidence, no hidden spellbook, and no bubbling cauldron were actually required by the inquisitors to draw fatal suspicion. A totally natural misfortune—a failed wheat harvest in the field next door, a neighbor’s cow suddenly dropping dead of disease, or merely a past, bitter verbal disagreement with a highly vengeful neighbor—could easily be all the “proof” it took to drag a woman away in the middle of the night.
The ensuing witch trials themselves were deeply surreal, terrifying kangaroo courts, offering the accused absolutely no real, logical chance of legal defense. Desperate, wild confessions to impossible acts of magic and devil worship were highly often brutally wrung out of the innocent victims through the application of horrific, sustained physical torture in dark, subterranean dungeons. Tragically, each resulting execution and conviction was proudly treated by the authorities as a righteous, holy success against the forces of darkness.
Yet, even within the supposed sanctuary of a quiet home, sudden, catastrophic destruction was only a spark away. Devastating, uncontrollable fires were absolutely inevitable during the Middle Ages. When you deeply consider the everyday environment—what with the absolute reliance on hundreds of flickering candles and roaring open hearth fires for heat and light, combined directly with tightly packed, highly flammable timber-framed houses topped with thick, dry thatch roofs that became essentially tinder-dry in the hot summer months, and interior floors thickly covered in dried straw or sweet rushes—it is a miracle they didn’t burn more often.
These dense, overcrowded towns and expanding cities were absolute, undeniable fire traps waiting for a spark. There was absolutely no organized, professional fire brigade to call on when disaster struck; citizens only had leather buckets and a desperate prayer. Just one single, carelessly unattended flame from an overturned candle or a stray ember from a blacksmith’s forge could easily, rapidly spread and burn down a whole, bustling neighborhood to the ground in almost no time at all.
Because of this profound vulnerability, there were naturally several massive, highly notable fires recorded in the densely packed city of London during the Middle Ages, long before the famous Great Fire of 1666. The earliest official historical recording of one such devastating inferno appears in the Book of Ancient Laws, meticulously written by scribes in the year 1274. The grim entry simply states:
“In this year was the great fire of Southwark, and it burned the church of St. Mary Overie, as also the bridge with the chapel there, and the great part of the city.”
And even if one avoided the flames, the rope, the famine, and the sword, the simple, mundane act of working and living was fraught with lethal hazards. Sudden, fatal accidents could happen to absolutely anyone, anywhere, and at any given time. There were, of course, no government-mandated health and safety laws, no protective harnesses, and no safety nets. Many a highly skilled, hardworking stonemason plunged to his sudden death, slipping from wet, rickety wooden scaffolding whilst laboring high in the air to help build one of the magnificent, towering Gothic cathedrals that still dominate the European skylines today.
Furthermore, despite living surrounded by water, not many of the medieval populace actually knew how to swim, viewing deep water with great superstition and fear. Consequently, many an ordinary peasant tragically drowned simply slipping down muddy banks by the rushing river whilst trying to perform mundane chores like washing heavy, wet clothes or trying to catch fish to feed their hungry families.
In the grinding, unforgiving reality of the Middle Ages, the specter of sudden death cast a very long, very dark, and heavy shadow over absolutely every single part of daily life. A sudden, virulent illness, a careless, brutal accident, an act of shocking, arbitrary violence, or a deeply cruel stroke of legal injustice could effortlessly snatch someone away into the dark in an instant, completely without warning or mercy. But by choosing to peer through the gloom, just by looking closely and truly knowing how the resilient medievals lived, struggled, fought, and ultimately died, we gain a much clearer, more profound sense of the vast, incredible distance between their terrifying world and our modern one. It teaches us to deeply respect how fragile and utterly uncertain human survival once truly was.
Thank you so much for watching this deep dive into history on this episode of Medieval Madness. If you genuinely enjoyed it and found it insightful, then please do consider subscribing to the channel, as your ongoing engagement and support really does help us out immensely to keep producing these documentaries. We do reliably release a brand new, meticulously researched video every single Friday, so be sure to click and hit the bell notification icon so that you’ll be instantly notified right when a new video releases.
And for those of you who want some extra, exclusive historical content and behind-the-scenes videos, we did recently start a brand new Patreon channel where we are officially uploading one extra, full-length video every single month, but we’ve already started the platform with a few fantastic ones currently waiting for you on there. And a massive, heartfelt thank you so much to our incredibly generous, higher-tier Patrons, whose names are proudly displayed on the screen right now. These amazing guys are directly, financially supporting us, allowing us to be able to dedicate the time to create these detailed videos for you all. Cheers everyone, stay safe, and as always, I’ll see you next week.
