Is that a nig-nog in the bushes? I'm sure there's one there,
I can smell 'em y'know, quick, fetch me m'gun.
Very good, your worship.
I tell you what, Titmarsh, you'd make a better bloody King than that son of mine, that fucking oaf, Brian, and you're only a teevee gardener, aren't you? And as for that fucking Nazi he's married,
well, really, I like horses as much as the next royal parasite, but marry one? You must be fucking smoking, I mean joking. But no, she smells like a fucking ashtray, that Camilla,
and always looks as though she's just gangbanged her way through the whole Rugby Union, and the bloody League, I shouldn't wonder. I mean, in my position, Titmarsh, one has to have a sense of humour about these sorts of things but fuck me gently, for years it was her husband, Andrew, jumping off and him, Shitbrains, Brian, the Prince of fucking Wales, jumping on, busier than St Pancras on a bank holiday, she was. No wonder she smells like an Indian sewer. No I don't know how many sprogs she had with her husband, Titmarsh, and I suppose some of them could be his, Brian's, which means they could be my grandchildren, God fucking help me, Titmarsh, I might be related to this smoky old poxed-up slapper. Christ, why didn't I stay in Greece? Edinburgh?? Who the fuck wants to be Duke of fucking Edinburgh, They were having a fucking laugh, weren't they, that stuttering old git of a King, and Winston fucking Churchill? Go on Titmarsh, name me one other Duke of fucking Edinburgh. You can't can you? That's because there haven't been any. I know what happened, The King said, l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l-et's m-m-m-m-m-m-ake him Duke of Edinburgh, he w-w-w-w-w-w-won't know where Edinburgh is, he's only a fucking Greek and Winston said, I may be drunk Shire, but in the morning I'll be shober and thish cunt'll shtill be Greek, very good, Shire, a very good if I may shay sho, joke, making an olive-munching, plate-shmashing wog the Duke of Edinburgh, very droll, Shire. And now, if Your Majesty will permit me I will jusht pash out drunk on the floor. That's what fucking happened, Titmarsh, you can bet your fucking wheelbarrow on it.
You know, Titmarsh, it's nearly a hundred fucking years that me and Brenda, or Her Majesty to you, 've been driving round this freezing bloody shithole of a country, planting fucking trees and shaking hands with lines of fawning arseholes from the council and the chamber of fucking commerce and in all that time no bastard's ever thrown rubbish at our car.....No, your worship.........but this bleeding nincompoop and his doxy, the first time they go out to the pictures it's like the French fucking Revolution's kicking off all over fucking Knightsbridge. Is it any wonder I'm having a fucking heart attack, a bastard lunatic who talks to fucking trees and can't wipe his own fucking arse wants to take over and ruin all the good work me and his mother've done, fucking Jesus, Titmarsh, what's the world coming to ? And as for that babyfaced, slaphead fuckwit of a Prince, Gormless, the bald one, just married some waitress, I understand.....you do know, don't you, that when he's up in the helicopter they have a real pilot, out of sight, operating the sticks and the rudders and what have you, and as soon as they've taken off, the other chap takes over properly and the gormless one goes and sits in the fucking luggage bay, picking his nose and eating it; fucking backward, he is, a ree-tard; fucking hell, Titmarsh, his mother wasn't the brightest star in the royal firmament, especially not after she started fucking her way through the entire NHS, but this lad's as thick as fucking pigshit....King??? King??? Don't make me fucking laugh, Titmarsh, I have a bad heart.
No, your worship, by your leave, I'll just go and make some compost. I find it very therapeutic, the smells, the texture of the organic matter .......
Oh do shut up, you pretentious cunt, everybody knows the production team does all the fucking gardening.
Right, your worship, very good, your worship.
No, your worship, by your leave, I'll just go and make some compost. I find it very therapeutic, the smells, the texture of the organic matter .......
Oh do shut up, you pretentious cunt, everybody knows the production team does all the fucking gardening.
Right, your worship, very good, your worship.
5 comments:
You are repeating yourself, mr anonymous. How many times do I need to tell you? It's not an essay, or a leader in a newspaper, it's just a peg and a picture or two for people to hang a rant on, if they choose to, sometimes they do, sometimes they don't, mr ptb has already done so on a previous thread but what does he know, a mere university lecturer, compared with you, a lonesome, irritable misanthrope, stalking cyberspace and giving marks out of ten ?
I don't think there is any such thing as bad language, by the way, just bad people and you are probably one of them. The best thing you can do, mr anonymous, is just take your GCSE and your Blairite sentences and fuck off to the TLS or somewhere else more befitting your highly developed, what should we call it, critical sensibility, yes, that'll do, you'll like that. Stupid cunt.
Simultaneously silenced and sent to the dunce's corner? No product of a Blairite edumecation programming is likely to take that in good part. They know everything, you see, and if they don't no one has any right to tell them differently. It might hurt their feelings.
This comment has been written under the sign of the evil, approving grin.
Bother, missed it. Probably not worth reading.
The BBC sent some unfortunate bod to stand outside Papworth Hospital for no good reason that I can see. The only thing I would have like to have explained is why they chose Papworth when Sandringham is slap between Kings Lynn General and the Norfolk and Norwich. Even Addenbrookes is only straight down the A10 from there.
Papworth does have a reputation based on its heart unit, but this was fitting a stent to an elderly gentleman. Absolutely standard, you should be able to get it done nearly everywhere.
What annoyed me was that while, in general, the institution of monarchy should be open and transparent for constitutional reasons, I can't see why one old bloke is unable to keep his medical notes confidential. Why the assumption that we are entitled to that he has been admitted at all, let alone that we are told about his pipework?
It's up to him, of course, maybe he likes getting Get Well cards, but that is very different from a press secretary insisting they have to put out a press release as if it was a public duty.
I just hope that is what the DoE really says.
I know the Queen thinks Brian is a div.
I know this sounds mad, but I was standing just feet from Brenda and Brian when he gave his speech at his wedding reception.
He looked around to mummy for approval (after slagging off the press as his grandmother used to) and the Queen smiled for a split second and looked away even more quickly.
Saw it wit my own eyes. Think you're closer than you know Mr I.
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