Of Queens and Kings and regal things
Published: September 10, 2022
Seeing and hearing all this stuff going around about kings and queens made me recall the time that I was the Queen of England and all the bits of dirt floating around it. Fuck it was great! Me — The Boss! I invaded almost every country on the map, mainly the dumb ones. Snuck up behind them when they weren’t looking. It was all about jobs and growth of the British Empire and all that bullshit, acquiring countries and setting up colonies, but, I confess that some of them — well most of ‘em — could be succinctly described with the first part of one of those ‘empire’ worlds: ‘colons’. Some of those places I picked up were right stinking — and very often sweaty — colonic bumholes.
Speaking of bumholes one of the great advantages of being queen was having people do everything for you from cooking your breakfast and washing the dishes to cleaning the spark plug on the lawnmower as well as blowing your nose and wiping your arse.
No joke! I had a team of arse-wipers whose job it was clean my quoit every time I dropped a prime minister in the Putin. All I had to do was bend over and one of the team would scrape the rusty sheriff’s badge clean as a whistle. In fact, it often used to whistle; a bit more of a baritone sound than a whistle, though.
Now, if you think that it might be a bit humiliating bending over after you’ve dropped a dead otter and have somebody clean your tea-towel holder for you, let me assure you that that was their job; I wasn’t gonna do it! That’s what they were paid to do.
Not that I paid them very much. Being rich is Croesus and, like all rich excretory sphincters, I paid them well below the minimum wage, just air and a bit of water. Well, I needed to hang onto my money for other things like gold, jewels and sceptres and Internet shopping and stuff. Anyway, I didn’t care. It was fun being the boss.
Sadly for me, the truth is that despite being worldly and royal and beautiful and everything, nobody liked me. Being a self-centered, greedy cloaca I didn’t give two hoots — or even one! — about anybody or anything, except at the very end when they came for me with guns and ropes to chop off my head. Snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking, they did.
I thought I could foil the process of separation of state and head by pulling my crown down around my neck to jam blade but the prick who was the queen before me was even tighter and meaner than I was and had pawned the gold crown and its jewels and replaced it with one made of rolled alfoil with wine gums hot-glued on.
So it was all a bit of a mess at the end and I don’t think I’d bother being queen again; I’m gonna leave it to some fucking Charlie to have a go at it.
While I’m going on about royalty and stuff, keep in mind The Nuts — the kings of the independent music world — will be playing at the Three Brothers Arms on Friday, September 30. Do not mistake it with the Two Queens’ Legs, or the Four Princesses’ Buttocks the Five Dukes’ Dongers or the One Uncle’s Carbuncle. It is the Three Brothers Arms at Macclesfield — yes, fukn Macclesfield! It’s not that far and you can afford it! And you need to use this ancient Celtic pictogram which was found inside an empty Pleistocene chip packet buried at Stonehenge to buy tickets. You know what to do: just buy some fuckin’ tickets and be there!
