After a very long life during she which she has been nourished, nurtured and surrounded by every comfort that money can buy - not to mention all that singing and requesting that God save her and allow her to reign over us for a very long time, Queen Elizabeth the Second died today, her spawn hurrying to her death bed with sombre faces.
Hugh Welshman is having a field day - wearing his best black suit and sad face, he is squatting across the BBC's output, coordinating all the vox pop interviews with a devastated nation and doing his respectful bit.
There's no hope for the British, honestly - they have been turning out in droves to stand outside the various royal houses, hoping to be interviewed on the telly about how the Queen was so important to them, how she bestrid the best part of two centuries and their lives. And doing the flowers in cellophane thing. What a great day for the nation's florists. .
Nicholas Witchell has been having a pretty good time, too, trotting out all the pre-prepared obituary footage, telling us how she could service an Army lorry. And how the Zadog the Beast moment set her apart for the rest of her life as she did fuck nothing with sublime panache.
I was at the local cinema for a live screening from the National Theatre of Much Ado About Nothing. How very appropriate. It was actually rather touching – the play was late
starting, the house lights stayed up, then the Director of the National Theatre
asked for a minute’s silence, they showed photos of the Queen at the National
Theatre, of which she was a patron, then everyone stood for the National
Anthem.
The Queen is Dead. Long Live the King. Another Zadog the Beast moment is looming. Will we throw off our monarchical shackles? I doubt it.
35 comments:
I've thrown off mine, mrs i. I had to turn it off as Nicky started blubbing or the telly would have been through the window again.
One bastard started calling for her to be known as Elizabeth the Great. Fuck me, Liz One will be spinning in her grave if that happens.
Long Liz has a nice ring to it, mr mongoose.
v./
Or maybe Lillibet Langzeit.
v./
glad to see that operation uniscorn has finally ground into action here, mrs ishmael.
evidently there was only room for one liz in the british establishment.
perhaps the departed one could be dubbed "liz the long-suffering"?
well, i know there'll be those that wish to do the old dear down...
but to be fair, she's come a long way since mastering the nazi-salute.
megraine's been caught trying on the crown, i hear...
oh shit, i've just realized...
the lurker's taking over now
is it true that the right honourable liz gas-pipe was spotted investigating potential fracking sites around balmoral castle?
I expect that after a decent period that Australia (and NZ and Canada) will become republics.
As I've aged I have become less monarchically inclined. A few months ago (when her husband died) I posted the view that when assessing the ledger her monarchy was a failure - she has presided over the decline of the UK and Commonwealth, as Defender of the Faith she has failed to exert a beneficial influence to the extent that the Church is now not only irrelevant but a laughing stock; and she failed in her hereditary duty of raising a respectable family. OK maybe all this is not entirely her fault, but I'm struggling to detect what influence she had.
But I can't help feeling that her passing is symbolic of the end of an era particularly as storm clouds are gathering over the West, and the shit is about to hit the fan.
in my opinion as a humble royal subject, it is only right and proper that liz wanksword should be buried in the royal barge - accompanied in death by her 650 loyal servants...
and the spot solemnly marked - in strict accordance with teutonic tradition - by a fifty-foot mound of grade-one horse-manure, organically sourced either from charles' stables, or camzilla's arsehole - depending upon availability of delivery-slots.
i have it on good authority that lizzie leberwurst is not in fact dead, but has gone rogue with her favourite hunting-rifle. a spokesman from police scotland has warned members of the public not to approach the mad old monarch, if sighted - and confirms that security has been stepped up for all government-ministers, former prime ministers, and certain members of the royal family. specially trained rspca officers, armed with tranquillizer-guns, are currently reported to be combing the length and breadth of the highlands in an attempt to track down and recapture the fugitive head-of-state.
at a hastily convened press-conference in downing street, prime minister tiz fuss has urged the nation not to panic - and has assured fellow britons that, whilst reports of her majesty's demise may presently be premature, this unfortunate situation will not be permitted to persist any longer than absolutely necessary.
with respect to the royal ship-burial, i regard the sacrifice of her majesty's 650 loyal hand-servants as just an act of pure political necessity, but sadly, if this viking-funeral goes ahead as planned, i don't see much future for the poor old corgis either...
of course, the circumstances of qe2's passing may not be quite as they seem...
for there's always the not-too-far-fetched possibility, you see, that that cunning president putin planted amongst the royal pack a corgi-mole which was specifically trained by the fsb to assassinate elderly aristocrats of german stock - and then once installed in the bosom of balmoral-favour, said dastardly double-agent-doggy could easily have crafted the window of evil opportunity to go for the british monarch's tragically defenceless throat.
moreover, consequent to a sly programme of subliminal pre-conditioning, the manky machiavellian mutt could even have been activated to bite upon regal utterance of some special trigger-word or phrase, such as: "fuck off you little shit" or "walkies".
now, call me a crack-pot conspiracy-theorist if you like, but the truth, i have long since discovered, is often way stranger than fiction.
there again, maybe princess di actually survived her fatal parisian car-'accident', and returned, in the guise of a kindly immigrant care-worker, to wreak deadly revenge upon her would-be-murderer - by slipping cyanide into the wicked old mother-in-law's cock-a-leekie soup.
well, it all makes yer think, dunnit...?
Up all night, mr ultrapox? I see that this tragic death of Good Queen Liz, ripped untimely from her dedicated life of service to the nation she loved at the far-too-young age of 96 - if only she had lived long enough to send herself a centenarian telegram - has affected you profoundly, as the tributes have poured out of you, rivaling both the Witchell General and Hugh Welshman (does he use blue eye-liner, or is it my telly?). Best go and get your head down, now. Although I did like the picture you painted of an ancient monarch, afflicted by a wandering dementia, stalking her beloved hills of Royal Deeside, deer rifle in hand, blasting away at her loyal subjects who gladly lay down their lives to give the nation's granny a few last moments of doing what she loved. The Nation's Granny, forsooth - I never did have a granny, as far back as I can remember - but had I possessed such an advantage, I'm sure she would not have resembled Liz-Long-to-Reign-Over-Us in any respect. Quite a middle-class confection, this Granny-Queen, albeit with the strangled and constipated aristocratic vowels of a child raised in utter privilege in the 1920s, when the only function of the poor was to wait upon their betters and cheer them to the rafters when they condescended to drive past in open carriages, their superior, gloved hands occupied in that strange, wrist-swivelling action they call waving.
Don't distress yourself at the thought of Elizabeth the Great, mr mongoose. It is inevitable. Canonization is the next step.
I have Long Covid, mr verge, it has attacked my knee. Is Long Liz quite as painful?
Ah, mr mike, one could wish that after a decent interval, Britain will join Australia and Canada in becoming a republic. Unlikely, though - the great engines of state have swung into action, burnishing Brian into an acceptable replacement monarch. The BBC is clearly under compelling instruction to report all this baton-passing as inevitable, and indeed, wondrous, ordained by Divinity. SO, Boris, it turns out that, like your premier-ship, it was a relay race after all.
Your analysis of Good Queen Liz's seventy-year reign, mr mike, is spot-on. Under her supposedly-guiding hand we have swung from Cold War with Russia to open conflict, the brief flowering of the National Health Service has fallen into terminal decay, the poor are now so very poor that we have Food Banks lest they starve to death, educational policy has resulted in a generation brandishing worthless degrees and debt whilst the few tradesmen that are left are now so inundated with work it is impossible to get your car repaired or your house patched up, London, once the jewel in our cultural crown, has became lethally dangerous, and in our cities, people stab other people to death on a whim or in pursuit of drug-grudges. (they'd shoot each other were Britons able to lay their hands on guns as freely as do our American cousins).
Do not send to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for Liz.
Mrs I: I tend to think that the flush of Empire was a brief (in geological timeframes) period of flattery. Compared with the ancient civilisations - the Egyptian, the Persian, the Chinese, even Mother Rus - the exploitation of the British Empire was a blip. Well, the Empire has ended and with it the collective West. It will take a few decades, but the natural order is re-asserting itself.
For the West, particularly Europe and the UK, dark times are just around the corner.
To be fair to good Queen Brenda and, indeed King Brian 111, the Royal Prerogative, the power to refuse govament laws or instructions, was removed from the monarch around a hundred years ago. They are kept as a side show, entertainment for the plebs, a make believe that we are somehow part of the Great British history. If we were taught the truth of British history we would either become a republic, overnight, or remove the frauds, thieves, perverts and murderers from parliament, hang the bastards and revert to the Monarchy with parliament similar to what we used to have. Of course there would be rogue monarchs as there have been, but FFS we’ve had the likes of B’liar, Broon, Cammoron, Treason May, the fatTurk and now Truss.
The one time when Liz should have spoken out, to her subjects, was when the Grey Major signed the Maastricht treaty, removing her sovereignty in return for EU citizenship. Swearing and signing the coronation oath, prevented any foreign power or influence over her realm. Her subjects should have been informed.
Can it please be over?
Be still, mongoose, lad, there's the lying in state, yet, the veneration of the royal corpse and the funeral in hushed tones of deepest despair still to go.
We could pray for a sudden onset laryngitis to afflict Witchell and Welshman, but there's bound to be a Dimbleby or two to replace them.
Is Simon Army-Triage still poet laureate?
What rhymes with catafalque, apart from talc?
v./
Oh, gods, yes, mr verge, fresh horrors await us, as the nation's official poets are flogged into producing Great Works of Destiny. I wonder what the Scottish Makar will make of the brief, given her output is generally of the Hurray Scotland,Scotland really Good, variety? And does Wales have an Official Druid?What about Northern Ireland?
As for your rhyme, would sulk do?
I just heard the Prime Minister of New Zealand on t'radio, mr mike, sharing his reminiscences and letting us know that his nation is mourning by leaving their porch lights on. Similar extravagance of grief in Australia?
Oops, that's what comes of listening t'wireless whilst half-asleep - not the New Zealand Prime Minister, who is a girl, but some other Arse-Licker Pursuivant who boasted about attending state dinners with Her Radiant Dignitariness.
My researches on Google, Mr V, give us "orichalc", a yellow metallic substance considered precious by the Ancient Greeks. Also, if we're allowed proper names: Jonas Salk, the vaccine chap, so that's a good one.
I ca assist the Laureate with an opening:
'There once was a monarch called Betty
Whose son could never get sweaty...'
He can take it from there.
Good stuff, Mr BB. (And I believe Sweaty Betty is still a gym bunny brand - surely a sponsorship deal in the offing for Andrew now he's about to be pointed in the direction of regular employment.)
All I could think of apart from talc was Van der Valk (which suggests a whodunnit - shades of mr ultrapox's killer corgi theory.)
cheers
v./
Mrs I: I can only report that it has been rainy of late, although warmer today as we enter spring - 20 odd degrees C.
Mr BB: we have the making of a poet laureate limerick here; I'm working on the next 2 lines; if only I had your skill.
There once was a monarch called Betty
Whose son could never get sweaty...'
The heir and the spare
Without much of a care...
There once was a monarch named Betty
whose worst son could never get sweaty.
The hair and the spare
without much of a care
declared "dry-bobs' travails are so petty".
v./
Beautifully rendered, Mr Verge. I had considered as our closing line: "Instead of brains had piles of confetti" but your tonsorial climax is much richer and leaves us with a tension which may never be resolved.
Or are you just being rude again, Mr V?
Thank you, Mr BB, though you may be too kind. Confetti would make a good pay-off. Only the heir would have "dry-bob" at his vernacular finger-tips, of course. KC3 has probably been around enough of the buggers to have picked it as well, so to speak.
Always rude, where they're concerned, but not intentionally dirty on this occasion (shome reshpeck due, shurely?)
v./
There are Etonian and Urban Dictionary definitions, Mr Verge. Everything is too slippery.
Every day a Skule Day, Mr BB. I expect the Beast Prince would know all about it already.
cheers
v./
I'm just off out to buy some flowers in cellophane.
the untimely ritual skin-shedding of the ruling gecko has indeed touched me in a fashion which i could never have truly apprehended, mrs ishmael, however as dutiful participants in a functioning democracy, we each mourn in our own individual manner, of course.
you yourself, for example, are striving to come to terms with our nation's great loss by doggedly excavating truths about our monarchy's institutional relevance which, due to their distinct socio-political unpalatability, most of us would probably shrink from addressing.
nevertheless, i am bound to remark that, in its pertinence to the late royal reptile's croaking, there still glares unspoken one rather uncomfortable truth - to which, in passing, the former prime gila monster himself somewhat obliquely alluded, when, in the course of an effusively emetic parliamentary eulogy to lizard longtongue the second, he acclaimed her radiant iridescence and deep fascination with all matters political.
now, hidden-in-plain-sight, this afore-mentioned verity actually appears to have heralded recent fateful events at the historic balmoral rock-pile, where it transpires that, having enquired as to the complexion of her new head-cobra's freshly metamorphosing cabinet - and then sought specific enlightenment as to the nature of occupancy of the next four great orifices-of-state - britain's most ancient-and-ambient aristo-amphibian duly received from her adder-de-camouflage the rather tersely construed response: "a cigar-smoking lesbo, two negros, and an ayah from the indian sub-continent, ma'am" - an unforgivably unvarnished résumé which not only precipitated in her late majesty a complete blackout of consciousness, but also necessitated a total media-blackout until such time as the livid lepidosaurian establishment could figure out just how exactly to disentangle itself from this progressively muddled multi-cultural predicament.
ps
on the subject of black-outs, i anticipate that, in order to keep itself warm throughout this cruelly encroaching winter, the british plebiscite will en masse be obliged to huddle together before the great hearth of windsor crevice - and burn our vast reserve-stock of royals.
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