A Sticky Subject in Rhine and Humber rivers

Which reminds me of a semi-tacky idea that came to me when trying to seal an envelope which had been lurking in my study so long that the glue had lost its lust for life. I had been reading of the discovery of a Roman helmet near the River Humber with a tea tray firmly stuck to its upper crest, the cristae of which are so often composed of a sticky mixture of ostrich feathers and decidedly public hair, I seem to recall from my local history classes. Very similar, apparently to one found near the Rhine in 2007. The glue, apparently, still works after 2000 years, give or take. There's semi-certainty between archie and the other ologists about most of the ingredients - tallow, bitumen and tree sap - but beyond that they're pretty well foxed about what causes the stuff to cling on after all these centuries. They've been speculating about whether the mystery legionary was walking across the Humber with the makings of tea on his head, so as not to get them wet. He'd be able to brew up at the other side. This strikes me as typical off the wall stuff. The trouble with the ologists is they set their sights too low, with depressing consequences for the ancient Mediterranean working man, woman or eunuch. And typical of them not to remember there weren't tea bags in those days. Much more likely, wages being what they were, he was working part time as a waiter and wanted to keep his goblets sparkling. An extra blob of glue under each should do it, provided on the far side he scraped it off before it dried.
Living in the real world of now, as one does, and naturally being of an enterprising turn of mind, I'm eager to turn historical insights into commercial reality and start manufacturing the gooey stuff. My hand trembles with excitement such that I can hardly grasp the pencil as I write. There's the little acknowledged market of wealthy and bald pilgrims wearing wigs which won't stay on as they traverse a number of extremely windy spots, from the Falkland Islands to Baffinland. I recall the distress of one Texan billionaire when his hairpiece blew off at our little animal park just north of north Driffield and was plucked from the air by a passing polar bear who mistook it for an Arctic skua and ate it forthwith. The bear was constipated for 22 days and was only relieved when the enterprising keeper administered a plateful of mackerel soused in castor oil, from the plant ricinus communis, I am semi-certain. Seven minutes later the bear excreted a stool weighing seven hundredweight which it took four men and a trailer to carry to the garbage tip.
I also have it on good authority from a certain senior citizen who holds a gong from our gracious Queen and balances habitually in a rather lucrative if uncomfortable position in Westminster, that ladies performing ritual dances in Soho will pay a fortune for a glue which will hold sparkly bobbles and triangles of tinsel in place.
Finally, of course, there is Granite, our indefatiguable butler at Havertrope Hall in the tundra-strewn outback of East Yorkshire. It's well known that his false teeth and his social standing have hung by the same thread for decades. On one occasion he coughed at silver service and they had to be fished out of the rissoles and on another he was completely rat-arsed, threw up after a particularly late lunch with a series of liqueurs with whisky chasers, flushed the toilet and there went his dentures. What he wouldn't pay for oral security isn't worth a crested serpent eagle's eyeblink.
These are but a foretaste of the great unexploded marketplace lurking out there, waiting to be stripped bare. Excuse me while I pause for a moment, count to nine and restore my centre of gravity.