Beware of the Doge

I had to visit the Doge's Palace today. It loomed like a gigantic duty. Luckily thanks to my prepaid pass I jumped the queue and earned the fleeting hatred of people of many nationalities. I was soon admiring the courtyard and especially the statue of St Theodore, often mistaken for St George, because they both tend to stand on crocodiles (don't try this at Whipsnade). His head had been replaced some time in antiquity by that of a much younger man. He should be so lucky.
I trudged up the Golden Staircase. These Doges were old blokes. Scarcely a single Doge was under 70. How did the poor old guys cope with the staircases? The Doge was always elected, and his son could not inherit the post. The only one who tried to establish himself as a despot was beheaded, and it was the longest surviving republic in Europe. They say the stability was because young people were excluded from power. I think Billy Connolly would make an excellent Doge if the post were to be revived.
I realised I was, in a slightly absent-minded way, thinking of the Doge as a kind of Pope, until I came to a room containing portraits of Doges' wives, and for a split second I felt briefly shocked.
After the wives' room came a succession of ever more sumptuous and swaggering public rooms. Stupendous is putting it mildly. You could have fitted three tennis courts into the final and most grandiose chamber. It was adorned with a vast fresco of Paradise, started by Tintoretto at the age of seventy seven, and finished by his son, and starring five hundred saintly persons. Somehow I had imagined Paradise would be a bit more fun and involve more in the way of resort clothing.
But most disturbing was the way all the Doges had themselves painted with the Holy Family. I know Venice is still the most beautiful city in the world, and back then it was the most powerful, too, but really! Doge after Doge was shown gate crashing various events in the life of Jesus. You couldn't even be quietly crucified without having a Doge bustling up and taking a selfie.
It seems a bit of a liberty, really. I can't imagine the Mayor of Wotton-under-Edge going in for that sort of thing.
After the Doge I had to go off in search of a plaster. I thought nothing could be worse than my fallen arch until I acquired my blister.