Sunday, 26 December 2010

WHAT THE MONARCH SAYS, GOOD QUEEN BRENDA, THE TEDIUM IS THE MESSAGE.


Well, of course, I have no time for Gay Bibles or any of that fucking rubbish.  King James's Authorised, that's the version for me. Proper fucking English.  The Queen's English, actually. Knowwhaddamean, subjects? Tell you the truth, one is not at all sure what to say, this year.  One means, everything's fucked, isn't it, country gone down the toilet.  That it should happen on one's fucking watch,  that's the shit of it, never put a foot wrong, me, and now, when I should be relaxing a bit, counting my money, like a proper senior citizen,  the fucking place has been taken over by crazy, shit-eating lunatics, last time one saw anyone like Cameron he was sitting on top of a fucking Panzer.

Oh, one knows that the junior moron's getting married but it's to some fucking gold-digger, a chav, they call them, mother doesn't know her arse from a hole in the fucking ground, thinks breeding's something one does with animals, common bloody trollop, and the bint, herself,  looks like she's strolled off the set of EastEnders and if you ask me she'll turn out like Gormless's own mother, banging like a shithouse door in a gale, working her way through the Household Cavalry, or was it the NHS, I think Diana was doing both of them. And that's not to mention the wog playboy and his oily pater. Dodgy ground, that, the way these family marriages turn out.  Diana. Nuff said, as they say in the Commonwealth. Anne's bloke, that stuttering, stupid bastard, wossisname, Phillips.  And Fergie, Jesus fucking wept, Fergie, fuck me gently, flogging off introductions to number-two son like she was a whore at a hockey match, which would probably be a step-up for the useless,  drunken,  fat pig. Needs a visit from the royal social services, she does, bringing-up MY princesses in shit like this. Bankrupt, she is, the cow, and  one doesn't just mean skint, one means not a thought, not a scruple, not a value in her empty head, just a vile, churning mess of greed and stupidity, she should have gone into politics.  These two tossers, Clegg and  Cameron, isn't it, prime fucking minister and deputy prime fucking minister, more like the two fucking Ronnies, they are, only not funny;  shouldn't be surprised if we have the troops on the street, shooting one's  subjects, stronganstablegovament, my royal arse.

One could talk about the Heir and his horsefaced Nazi baggage, FagAsh Lil, the Prince's comfort, nearly getting strung-up the other day but frankly one gets a bit pissed off with Brian, one means, he just never grew up, sits around, still, making Goon noises, off the wireless, and that was over fifty fucking years ago. And as for all that Tampax nonsense, well, Jesus fucking Christ, what a prat one has raised. Wasn't me, really, brought him up, just the usual sinister below stairs plotters and poofters, no wonder he's a Grade A Berkely Hunt.  Couldn't hardly write his name on the Cambridge exams,  good job we own the examiners or he'd look even more of dummy than he already does, crashing his aircraft, running aground in his minesweeper  and marrying a disturbed teenager from a family of pisshead nutters. And don't fucking well start me about the Duchy of Cornwall Digestive biscuit enterprise, gonna be King and Head of the Commonfuckingwealth and he's buggering about, saving the planet,  with fucking biscuits.

But sport, that's the thing, can't really go wrong talking about sport, or can one,  the prime minister did, didn't he, along with Will Gormless and that fucking ladyman footballer, the one covered in tattoos and adverts, Christ, he makes my skin crawl, grovelling and arse-licking, It's the very bestest honour wots ever bin imposed on me, playing for my country, No, I actually heard him say that,  and his scrawny tramp of a wife,  Jesus, what a fucking ree-tard, Essex, isn't it, she comes from, like the future fucking Queen Katy,  a consumer witch, fucking country's over-run with  them, I suppose they'll be wanting me to knight the fucker, next, Arise, Sir David Beckham of Vodafone.  Over my dead body.  Brooklyn, that's what he calls his brat, isn't it, and Romeo, fucking Romeo, one asks you.

It says here that it encourages teamwork, one would say esprit de corps, except that no fucker'd know, these days, what one was talking about . And it's a bit rich, anyway, what with the govament of merchant bankers cutting all the sport money and shutting down the programmes  to be banging on about sport in school, now that it's been abolished, along with civilisation, by that ghastly little prig, Spit-Gove, horrid fucking know-it-all, how many times is it, he's U-turned, or apologised? Adopted, wasn't he, real parents probably knew what was coming with the little fucker. Wish I had, with mine.

Well, that's it, the Bible and Sport, best I can do, as I said, the place is fucked; Tories, I fucking hate 'em, that mad, old crow, Thatcher, shoulda punched her in the fucking gob.  See you all next year, if we haven't been taken over by Europe. Or China, Or some other bastard.

9 comments:

Edgar said...

i've always had a soft spot for David Icke, you know, Mr Ishmael. Ok, the spot happens to be in my head, but all the same, .... Ickey reckons that Brenda and her brood are a bunch of lizards from Dimension 5, and the final evidence is right there in that picture. Down, under the tree, by Bren's right hip, is her real face she's just slipped off for the benefit of the camera.

PT Barnum said...

Indeed, Mr Edgar, well spotted. It also seems to be the case that her humanoid shell is about to reach critical entropy, since the mismatch between function and execution is growing ever wider.

Either that, or she really can't be arsed anymore.

black hole sunset said...

Unlike the rest of us, Brenda, 5th level lizardoid dimentionate and all, has every reason to be perky this time around because the House of Freeloaders stands to coin it in from windmill seabed ownership rights. Honest, they own the seabed.

Still, Merry Christmas to all.

Anonymous said...

i thought there were 2 crowns , one brenda, the other the city of london aka rothchilds

mongoose said...

I have never bothered much about the Royals. Well, who cares, eh? But as the noose on civilisation tightens, one begins to ask if it is fair that some ride in the Roller and some ride the bus. The moral desert of kingship...? Awww, fuck 'em. Up the steps with them all. Poor Katie too. Turncoat witch.

call me ishmael said...

It was the slovenliness of it all, the broadcast, which I found curious. Praise of the King James Bible, you can get that here, and sport, sport you can get anywhere; one expects something a bit more timely and better crafted from the Queen.

I wonder what she knows that we don't know; I am sure there's lots, of course, all the time, but it's never reduced her, before, to babbling.......

mongoose said...

It is because the world now values crap and veneer, Mr Ishmael. The QE2, bless, has as much PR and presentational skill as a cat turd in a litter tray. As you say though, she has hitherto managed to strangle some vowels in a more or less orderly procession. It is as if she feels the need - in our Dead Diana world - to be more in touch with the common folk. One would not have been surprised to have heard her warble on about the X Factor.

In a mad parallel way, I am watching an Australian fast bowler spray the ball all over Melbourne. And his bowling arm is as tattooed as a Portsmouth sailor's. In the days of old, the days of gold, Australian fast bowlers frightened ye with cricket balls steaming past yer snozzle. No more. PR, bluster, bollocks. These are our kings now.

banned said...

Thank you so much for this Mr. Ishmael, supurb all the way through. I haven't seen this years broadcast and won't bother, prefering to stick with this one.

Colonel Blimp said...

....and here is one's dirty washing....... http://tinyurl.com/38au7g5