As we mourn the filthy, blood- and grease-flecked globule of spittle rolling down the side of Alexandre Dumas’ gravestone that is The Three Musketeers, we’ve cast our minds back to happier times. We remember an age before ‘swashbuckling’ was a dirty word associated with Logan Lerman’s stupid face, when men were men and women were basically just pairs of tits waiting to get rescued. We remember, and we drink…

Take one sip (from a bottle of fizz which you’ve opened with a sabre):

Whenever people decide to have a little duel in a manifestly inappropriate location. Nunnery? Check. Church? Check. Boat? Now you’re being stupid.

Whenever someone puts on an outfit which is clearly not suited to fencing, and then straps a great big sword over the top of it. Seriously, he’ll never keep that doublet uncreased…

Whenever ‘being a bit of a fop’ suddenly = Period Jedi. Surely the Cardinal’s had time to start training his Guards in Not Getting Battered By Musketeers by now?

Take two (ladylike) sips:

Whenever a lady proves herself to be unexpectedly handy. See, there had to be more to them than standing around in lacy dresses!

Whenever a lady is totally useless. That other lady must have been a fluke; generally speaking women can’t be trusted to sigh unaided.

Whenever a lady’s presence in a scene is clearly built around the fact that everyone else is wearing brown leather and some heaving Regency boobs would really liven things up. Looking at you, Raquel Welch.

Take three sips (and cackle):

Whenever you are able to identify a baddie by the simple fact that his clothes are a) darker b) more ornate or c) smarter than anyone else’s. The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was, after all, WEARING BLACK ALL THE TIME.

Whenever evil is demonstrated using the International Shorthand of Moral Accessories. In case you need reminding, billowing capes: evil, moustaches: evil (but only if they’re little), ostentatious jewellery: probably evil and eyepatches: more evil than a people trafficker who injects AIDS into Percy Pigs.

Whenever Errol Flynn coolly dispatches the International Shorthand of Moral Accessories with a swift thrust to the throat, stroking his illicit moustache with his free hand. You’re only allowed to break the rules if you’ve got a postgraduate degree in Swashbuckling. Errol Flynn taught the class.

Finish him it, you black-hearted dog!

Whenever the fight choreographer earns his keep.

Whenever the valour is magnificent.

If you’re still standing, simply put on any version of The Three Musketeers and drink whenever d’Artagnan’s a complete tool. You won’t last long.

Happy quaffing!