Evening meal over, all washed up, tidied away. Stuffed and wasting in front of the TV, feet up, fire on.
Newsflash!
Amazingly it’s a good newsflash, just for once, with a reason to celebrate this very evening. The now extremely suddenly ex-prince Andrew, getting his partial, long overdue, comeuppance. Partial, because this loathsome parasite really deserves to be par-boiled for the rest of his life. Though I’m not sure we really have much to celebrate when this odious individual has leached off the State for so many decades. No doubt he has a vast fortune safely stashed somewhere for just such an eventuality as this. Dosh and jewels mouldering away in Louis Vuitton bags, buried on some like-minded crony’s estate. I’m sure there are plenty of them willing to oblige.
Now to be known as plain and simple Andrew Mountbatten Windsor. If I was king, I’d have made him change his name to plain old Mr Fuck Bollocks instead. There’d be an awful lot of other changes too, if I ever made it that far, but that’s for another day. Hopefully he’ll get a good kicking down the line for such a poncy name. Will all that lengthy tosh even fit on a regular credit card?
Not only being de-titled, he is to be promptly turfed out of his drum, lease torn up and locks changed. Though I doubt he will ever be properly slumming it further along the road. Should be living in a wheelie bin, the classic version, with only one wheel and a broken lid. A bin that’s had cat litter and gloss paint in it and not been emptied properly. Be interesting to see if his harpy ex’ now tags along for the ride. Double bins. Will she downsize or will she just follow the money? I suspect he won’t ever do the honourable thing, like they did in the good old days and top himself.
Hold the front page. There will be an absolute bumper edition of the Daily Fascist tomorrow. A few bonus points scored with avid readers, for the not-my-king finally having the balls to go some small way to doing the right and proper thing at last. I wonder if the Mail will print one of those six-page glossy full colour pull out photo rag supplements? The much awaited 2025 souvenir special de-Princing edition. A proud day to be remembered by the whole country. Get the porcelain limited edition cups and matching saucers, with a real guilt rim, available on page five. That will be a REALLY guilty rim then. Hand printed with the flabby fucker’s harried grey side-long mug shot of shame. A must-have to celebrate this once in a life time spectacular royal event. Not sure about that.
I wonder what happens to all the medals and gongs? Should be melted down and recast in to a ball and chain attached to his scrotum.
I’ve never been a Royalist, not that you’d ever guess. A completely outdated, archaic notion, decades, if not about a century, out of date in fact. Probably a bit of a clue to my mindset in here. If you were in any doubt. As kids we were dragged up properly, to believe in Queen and Country and short haircuts, no idea why. Seemed to me she’d never bothered doing much around where I lived when I was a kid, hadn’t even a clue we existed, let alone cared. Only time we ever saw her was on a stamp or a penny. Nothing in silver mind.
Dark abandoned northern lands, polluted with the noxious effluent of steel and chemical works. Providing the essential back bone of British industry for many years, until it was cheaper to off-shore and fuck the hard grafting, poisoned, northern oiks. Pumping out toxins in to the air and sea for a hundred years or more. Rivers and streams running orange with effluent from the abandoned ironstone mines just inland. Sea awash with pyridine, waste oil and other noxious discharges. Poisoned fish and shell fish. No royal warrant there. Wouldn’t eat our crabs down south. Though she did own most of the beaches we played on. Just what do the royals do with all that shingle and sand? Not like they really need stuff to be building yet another castle. We had those little paper flags on sticks in the summer for our castles. Not much use for all that aggregate when your completely castled out.
The Queen or whatever bleedin’ monarch we have, owns everything between the high and low water marks. I recall they also immediately own anything that’s just been washed up within said demarcation lines. A fucking hand grenade would be a quite handy bit of flotsam, or is it jetsam? Whatever. Old Queenie on a northern holiday, early morning, checked the tides, out beachcombing with the corgis. “I say Marmaduke drop it boy, drop it…” BLAM! – to quote Lichenstein. So, I dispensed with all such parental teachings about being proper and also shunned the local barber by the time I was a teenager.
The barber. He used to operate out of some 1950’s windowless room, behind a nicotine stained plastic ribbon curtain in the back room of the local newsagents. Hide’s. Or was it Hyde’s? No matter. He was Mr Hide. Short, plump, sweaty, myopic bald bloke. Odd that, sorting out hair when he didn’t seem to have ever had any. For some reason I have a recurring image in my mind of Christie, from Ten Rillington Place. Was that Richard Attenborough? Good old Dicky? He was gassing and fiddling about with women while his brother ran around shagging gorillas in the mist or something like that. I’m not suggesting Mr Hide did either of those things, but this image just keeps popping up, irrepressible. Maybe I need to talk to someone about this…
I remember sitting in the back room, about five years old. Dropped off by me mam. She’d be off buying a quarter pound of mince or an egg or something for tea. We didn’t do dinner. It was tea at dinner time, dinner at lunch time, we’ve done all this before, check the back catalogue. Don’t get me started on supper. Poncy bloody notion, supper. Might have been a single Weetabix if you were lucky, but you were in bed before supper time, maybe even before you got up, so you could fit in a shift in the mill before school. Weetabix probably hadn’t been invented in those days. Anyway, grubby glossy chrome and red plastic chairs with upholstery that stuck to the back of your legs. Piles of old newspapers with the tops ripped off.
Newsagents used to rip the tops off papers they couldn’t flog and post them back to the printer or whoever, for a refund. I’m a mine of information. Who thought digital news was a good idea. What are you going to put in the bottom of the rabbit hutch or chicken coop? A bleedin’ lap top? That won’t soak up much crap. I use the Daily Mail, saved by my neighbour, got a bad attitude my chickens, reading that shit every day.
Pin-ups on the walls. Hot and stuffy. Encircled by crotchety old geezers in a thin blue haze, chuffing on pipes stuffed with Old Shag and Woodbines, Capstan Full Strength. I’ve never willingly smoked a tab in my life. Trepidation, fidgeting, waiting my turn for the routine chop. Clutching a shilling or whatever it cost to pay the daft old bastard. Banter I could never understand. Shelves stacked with something for the weekend and little white plastic boxes of Gillette razor blades, but I’m totally oblivious. Fucker nearly cut my ear off once.
National Service. Used to hear that a lot. “Get yer hair cut. You need to do National Service you do son, that will sort you out, you little bastard… I nearly fought a war for your lot.” “Don’t know yer born these days, now in my day…”
Of course the classic modern riposte would simply be “Fuck off grandad..” But we were polite and respectful. Kids always were in those days. We just had different thoughts running through our heads while being seen to do and say the right thing. Step out of line and anyone would batter you for being out of order. It was always open season. Teacher, copper, milkman, dinner lady, bloke on the street. Then if you went home and told your dad you’d likely get it all over again. The good old days.
My dad did his National Service in the Airforce. To listen to him you’d think he’d been a Spitfire ace in the Battle of Britain, not some apprentice ground based radio tech’, playing with valves and polishing his buttons.
Blokes with a chip on their shoulder because they’d completely missed out on WWII but had been conscripted for eighteen months National Service when the party was finally over and they were all old enough to wear long trousers. They banged on about it for years. All grumbling because they missed the chance to shoot someone. Seems to me that was one party everyone needed to be late to.
Thankfully all that ended in the early ‘60’s. Though I genuinely think we need an “army” of well-disciplined people to get stuff done in times of crisis. Get stuck in, whatever the weather. A good backup. Governments and their lackeys fuck about. Want a job done quick, give it to the Services. Not bogged down in red tape, ppe and risk assessments. Just like the Nightingale hospitals, no tape there. Whether they were really needed or not is irrelevant at this point, but they certainly got them built sharpish. Boris should be in a wheelie bin.
Another candidate for par-boiling is that silicon twat Michelle Mone and her beaux, though I reckon they’ll completely get away with all the fiddling, the yacht and the enormous pile of money they nicked. Along with numerous members of the complicit recent ex-tory government. The press is more interested and distracted by the miniscule property related mis-demeanours of Labour cabinet members. One needs to be totally squeaky clean. Unless you’re a royal, up to your neck in shit but still afloat, hopefully in a bin, but minted none the less.
And the worst of it is, I fully suspect in 1961, when I dropped in to this world, my mam proudly named me after prince Andrew, the most recent royal baby….
