Saturday, July 22, 2017

Countdown to the royal whatever, part 2.

I know that I have been neglectful of late with tales from the Saxe Coburg Gotha clan. I apologise to those of you who have been missing the updates and also to those of you who thought that I had run out of stories and were celebrating.

It is not as though there is any shortage of interruptions to my well-deserved retirement, but more that the tone and frequency sometimes seems so predictable and tedious that I am circumspect about repeating them.

This time it was the middle of the night.

“I’m 91 you know”.

“Fuck off, Liz, you daft tart, do you know what time it is?”

“Sorry, ducky, I’m on Canadian time.”

“Don’t be so silly – you went to Canada House. Even with an escort of the entire British Army and driven slowly in a coach and horses it’s only 5 minutes. It’s just at the end of the Mall, ffs. I know you must get bored of looking out of the window, but did you notice thousands of miles of prairies or any vast expanses of water larger than, say, St James Park lake?”

“I’m 91 you know.”

“Oh piss off. Now is there any particular point to this call or am I the designated stooge this week? What’s Philip up to – surely there’s still mileage in telling him some stories about young Edward.”

“No, not since he retired. He feigns indifference and just likes to watch all the tasteless medical documentaries on the television all day.”

“Haven’t you told him that all of his treatment will be on the NHS now that he isn’t doing any official duties?”

“Shit! That’s a good one. I’m so pleased I called”.

“Well, much as I love you,  I’m not. Is this about that chap touching your elbow?”

“Yes! That was it! I knew there was something. I thought the bugger was trying to push me down the steps. I told him that he was looking for a one way trip to the Tower. If the cameras hadn’t been there I would have hit him upside the head with my handbag. ‘I wonder what she has in her handbag’ they’re always asking – well it will be a sodding great brick if I have to go back there again.”

“Stop being so precious, I’m looking forward to your meeting Trump. He’ll have his tiny hands all over you. I shall definitely watch that with the utmost attention.”

“You can forget that; we’ve already worked out how to deal with him – we’ve got an open contract with Helen Mirren to stand in for me, he won’t know the difference and she can kick him in the bollocks if he tries any funny stuff.”

“Goodnight, Brenda”

“I’m 91 you know”

Tuesday, July 04, 2017

From sea to shining shite

It has become a tradition on this day to post something vaguely satirical about the UK celebrating getting rid of religious bigots to the colonies and allowing the various sects and loonies to forge a new country 241 years ago.
Although I accept no more responsibility for this than I do for any other aspect of British History (I wasn't there) be it the Black Hole of Kolkata, the establishment of the NHS, the slave trade or the liberation of Belsen, I feel it behoves me to offer sympathy to the inhabitants of the United States for thinking that they could collectively grow up in less than 2 and a half centuries.
Had Howe, Cornwallis et al tried a little harder then perhaps secession could have been avoided and a compromise reached.
Today, for example they could have had young Harry Saxe-Coburg-Gotha or his mentally challenged uncle Andy as titular head of state - a frightening prospect in any circumstances other than the current one. The ongoing dismantling of the country could have been replaced by the more benign Republican/KKK power sharing agreement similar to the one operating back home at the moment.
I wish I could be more enthusiastic in wishing a happy birthday to the USA - land of the fucked and home of the shit spangled banner.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Countdown to the royal whatever, part 1

You will have read (those of you with either a serious lack of useful occupation or an IQ in the mid 30s) of young Harry Saxe-Coburg-Gotha and his being uncomfortable in his family.

I can now reveal some of the history behind this story, details which I have kept secret for some time in order to protect the innocent. And also the Saxe-Coburg-Gotha clan.

Please remember that all of this happened a number of years ago and there may be some slight inaccuracies, but the essence is true.

I was limbering up for the Saturday of the Lords test match - I think it featured Sri Lanka, by practising some hasta mudra in order to be flexible enough to stretch to the mute button for the advertisement breaks.

A call on the electric telephone interrupted these important rituals. “Yo, you know that spare bedroom you have?”

“Hello Harry, you soft bastard, sup, and why are you calling me on the morning of a religious festival?”

“I just wondered whether you had thought about extending your family?”

“Piss off, you colossal dimwit, there is already an excess of ugly ginger people in my family, none, thankfully, as dumb as you, and the spare bed is reserved for Nelson Mandela so he can watch cricket in peace – I think that might be him at the front door now.”

“But it would only be until my music career takes off – or perhaps I could be a salesman in a shoe shop.”

“You do realise that we have one spare room, don’t you – there are no facilities for staff members, such as the royal sock folder or the pillow fluffer?”

“Oh, fuck it, forget it then, I’ll just join the bloody army”.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Inconsequential tripe, but if I don't start writing again soon I never will, and then you'd be sorry, wouldn't you?

My good friends, Theodore and Evadne Google, are in the habit of bringing anniversaries to the attention of visitors to their splendid website. I believe that they often get several hundred visitors each day. Well done!

Today (and wtf am I doing up at this hour, you may query, to which I would riposte “Twatting about on the electric internet – one would have thought that that was obvious”) they are publicising the anniversary of the discovery of the Antikythera mechanism, a little artefact over 2000 years old which some chaps in Greece threw together to demonstrate the position of the known planets, which they did quite cleverly considering that they thought that this planet was at the centre of the solar system, if you know what I mean, I dunno what they called the solar system.

Later versions of these mechanisms were called orreries, and it is at this point, dear reader, that I lose interest. God, in his infinite compassion, has visited upon me and many of my relations on my maternal side, the inability to cope with the letter “R”. Together we would be compelled to welease Wodewick. A friend once asked how I would say “library”, to which I replied “very quietly”. I am proud that I have borne this disability stoically throughout my life. I like to think that I could have made a decent fist of being the lead singer of the Rolling Stones when they offered me the job, but people were much less tolerant back then.

These days I am at the vanguard of those campaigning to end discrimination against those with speech defects; victims such as the current first lord of the treasury, Twatty Tess, who suffers from Tourettes to such an extent that the phrase “strong and stable” has to appear three times in each sentence. I encourage you all to empathise with her by chanting the refrain “weak and fucking stupid” each time you hear her say it. Who knows, we may help to pioneer a new medical treatment.