WOTSONTELLY. ROYAL JELLY. IT WAS SIXTY YEARS AGO, TODAY.

This is the Six o Clock Arselicking  with Huw Welshman, look you, isn't it, and like the rest of the country we here at the BBC are celebrating Her Majesty's sixty years on the toilet, I mean throne, isn't it, what am I thinking about? And we go over now to Buckingham Palace and our Royal Correspondent, Nicholas Knobcheese. Nick, what can you tell us?

cut to tired old man in front of palace

Yes, thank you, Huw, and that's right, here, as everywhere in her realm, people are celebrating Her Majesty's sxity years on the throne. Except not in Highgrove, obviously. It was, as Mr Ishmael says in the headline, sixty years ago, today, that Her Majesty's father, His Majesty, passed away, some say from the burden of office thrust on him by his brother and that American slapper, while others say it was down to too many Capstan Full Strength, smoked from a gold Cartier, diamond-encrusted cigarette holder, as befits one born so highly above us mere mortals. Whichever, Huw, it was a terrible tragedy, the Old King dying, truly terrible but on the other hand it was a miracle, a fairy tale miracle, which saw the beautiful young princess assume the duties of Europe's oldest and best loved monarchy, a duty which she has never, in these sixty years, shirked for one single moment. And for which the entire nation is today falling to its knees and giving thanks. Whilst other nations'a have had unemployment and wars and hunger and corruption in high places here, in good old England, we have known only peace, health and prosperity, the stability and contentment offered only by the wise monarch truly serving the needs of her subjects......

Whaddaout all that shit with the young Spencer girl, them treating her like a brood mare

 

and him,

 

Prince Jugears, virtually on his wedding night, riding the arse off that smoky old bagagge, Camilla,

GOD SAVE THE NEXT KING AND QUEEN OF ENGLAND

and her the wife of one of his so-called brother officers? A bit near the despot mark that, woodenchasay, Nick, a bit mediaeval????

Well, honi soit qui mal y pense, Huw

You what?? This is the six o clock news, here, Nick, not fucking Mastermind, honi what ????.

It means, in a rough translation, Huw, death in a Paris tunnel to those who would fuck with the Firm..

Well, I must admit, Nick that both me and the viewers will be lost there. But what about that other fucking idle bastard gabshite, Andrew, the one who hangs out with Jetset nonces and hand-cutting, head-chopping, wimmin-stoning Ayrabs....what about him, what's he good for.

Well His Royal Highness, the Duke of York, is the Queen's favourite son........

What, you are fucking joking, aren't you, that bastard, the one who goes around the world slagging off the govament and the press and the people, generally, worse than his fucking Dad. that one.....

Yes, Huw, but no worse than his brother, the heir to the throne....

Well, Nick, I do see what you mean, he is a right arsehole, isn't he, Charlie, good for fuck all, can't even squeeze his own toothpaste, the worthless fucking tosser. And is it true that when silly fuckers in the public send him presents he's no sooner unwrapped 'em thatn he's sending some flunkey down to CashConverters with 'em and trousering the money and doesn't even pay no fucking tax on it, the cheeky cunt, is that right???

Huw, viewers will know that because of the very great service they render the nation that highly placed royals - not that there are any low royals and if there are then it's down to the aforementioned Solution Parisienne  - Her Majesty has seen fit to set her hard-working family outside the normal legal requirements of we, her loyal arselicking subjects......

So, he does what he wants, them, this knobhead......

Yes, Huw, very much so, apart from sitting, himself, with his doxy, on the Grear Throne of State, that must await events, perhaps the death of his father, the gobby Greek fucker, will prompt an abdication. But who knows, Huw, who, in this world of cut-out cardboard princes and dukes, all togged-up in Ruritanian uniforms, bristling with medals awarded by Granny, who knows what may happen. I for one, as a seasoned observer of these things simply hope that Her Majesty goes on for another sixty years. And another, after that.

And as long as good Queen Brenda is in the throne all will be as it should be. The nation can enter this Joyous Year of SpivCuts, Privatisation, Unemployment and Hunger completely distracted by her Majesty's Jubilee. It is, after all, what she's for. And now back to you, Huw, in the studio.

That was Nicholas Knobcheese there for us, outside the Palace of Thieves, where the Royals spend part of their yearly six months' holiday, safe from the Press and from the benefits fraud enquiry officers, who, strangely, never go near them.

And it's over now to the roof of Buckingham Palace, where Doctor Sir Brian May, OBE and Atronomer Royal, stargazing's true WildChild, is about to celebrate Her Majesty's reign as only he can, you know, that riff, that whining tone, the only one he knows, for fucks sake. He's made a fucking fortune, playing the same thing for forty fucking years. At least Freddie Mercury could shake his arse a bit. Jimi Hendrix's Star Spangled Banner, now, look you, there was a national anthem for you, not like this tripe, isn't it.

Nevertheless, if you would all be good enough to stand for the national anthem it might do you some good, when the time comes.  We can see you, you know.  And hear you.