WHAT THE PAPERS SAY, THE FILTH-O-GRAPH. PRINCE DICK-OUT TO RISK LIFE IN WOGISTAN.

PARTY PRINCE  IN PR EXERCISE. 

    SEND HIM VICTORIOUS

After  a meeting with Head of the Royal Pretend Soldiers Brigade, Brigadier General Sir Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, (Eton, Sandhurst and the Chelsea VD Clinic,)  it was announced that the nation's favourite Prince, Prince Harry Knobhead, has agreed that in order to clean-up the mess left by his latest FuckTrip to LA, he has to start pretending again that he is actually a serving army officer, and not a pampered, idle playboy git, like the rest of his family.

The pretence must be maintained that His Grace, said the Brigadier, is mad keen to get his royal arse blown off by some raghead freedom fighter, that he is gagging for it, any opportunity to bounce up Everest on his arse or what's left of it, with some poor people, that's what is uppermost in His Excellency's mind. His brother?  No, I should jolly well think not.  His brother, Flight Lieutenant Gormlesss, the future king, is fully occupied rescuing commoners from the Irish Sea, when he is not unavoidably on holiday, that is, with Mrs Gormless, the former waitress.

Asked how much danger the popular young prince might find himself in, Brigardier Golightly-Jockstrap said, Not very much, hardly any, in fact, depends on how much we can mock-up in the studio and how the other young pilots co-operate.  I suppose that if we actually let him near the controls of an Apache  he might crash it, like his father would, or fall out of it  but that's not likely to happen, not without him being detoxed fully,  over about six months and  then being taught to fly the damned thing.  No, no,  there's generally someone down below the cockpit, actually operating the controls while Harry's up top, waving;  or we do it remotely.  Queen's grandson get killed in some MickyMouse war about oil?  I should Cocaine, I mean Co-Co.

DUKE IN HOSPITAL WITH CHARLES PAINS, I MEAN CHEST.

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.

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.

THOSE CORNISH FLOODS; A DUKE SPEAKS.

HIS ROYAL FUCKPIGNESS, CHARLES, PRINCE OF WALES, 

DUKE OF CORNWALL AND USELESS, IDLE PIMPING BASTARD

I'M GOING TO BE KING, YES I AM, SO YOU CAN ALL FUCK OFF.

KISS MY ROYAL ARSE, NOT THAT YOU NEED AN INVITATION, MOST OF YOU.

One would just like to say that one is appalled, absolutely appalled, at the dreadful suffering in one's dukedom,  I mean, one may well have to forego a portion of one's rents.  And at a time when one is going to have to root around in one of the silver cupboatds to give the newlyweds a gift, well, it's a jolly poor show. One may have to go off for six weeks ski-ing to help one restore one's equilibrium.  A jolly good job you lot are paying for the wedding. And my Coronation. And Camilla's. Well, if this little scrubber can be Queen so can my dear old horsefaced shagbag, eh? The people? Fuck the people, they'll think what they're told.

Lieutenant Colonel  Rupert Golightly-Jockstrap, of the Queen's Own RedTrousered NancyBoys Regiment,  an equerry (fawning servant) to his Grace, the Duke, said that although His Royal Highness was deeply moved by the plight of his subjects in St Austell and some other towns of the Dukedom which he had temporarily forgotten the names of, he would not be jumping on the Royal Train and going down to help with sandbags and sweeping the shit out of people's grimy little hovels, Fuck me, no.  That's not what the Royal Family is for.

WOTSONTELLY & WHAT THE PAPERS SAY

GORMLESS INBRED PRICK, SORRY, PRINCE TO MARRY AIRHEAD TOTTY, OK YAH!

SKYMADEUPNEWSANDFILTH 24-HOUR COVERAGE. ALL CHANNELS. ALL 'PAPERS.

His Royal Highness, Prince Gormless of Wales, is set to wed society beauty and sensible girl, Kate something-or-other in a national extravaganza but scaled-down a little bit because of all the jobless, homeless, hopeless people who will nevertheless be cheering-on their future monarch and monarchess. From their cardboard boxes. And serve 'em right, too, how dare they be care workers?  Say what you like about our Wills being a pampered fuckwit who can barely speak but at least he's fought fer 'is country, said Kelvin McFawkes, tabloid spokesman, sort of;  worn a uniform, anyway.  Which is more than these public sector people can claim.

 PRINCE HARRY HEWITT, ANOTHER ONE OF THE FUCKERS

 Prince Harry Nazi was interviwed by Kelvin McCunt about the Big Day. Best man? You bet.  A ruck, I should think so, specially if there's any Pakis there, only mean it in fun, like;  served alongside some nignogs, jolly good blokes, for jungle bunnies, as m'Grandad would say;  he's really cool, Phil the Greek.  No, seriously I am thrilled for Wills, although if he dies, I'll get to be King, knowhaddamean? You can take this blood's thicker'n water thing too far.  And anyway,  in our case it's not.

YOU CAN ALL FUCK OFF, WHAT?

Just as long as he doesn't think he's getting my job, that's the main thing; otherwise they both might find themselves upside-down in a Paris underpass, Dieu et mon droit, that's the thing, droit de signeur, that's another one, might give the little minx one myself. I'm allowed.

This is a great day for our country, says David Cameron.

Well, if I was a proper prime minister they would have consulted me but since I'm not they just told me. But never mind, I'm jolly glad that there's a diversion to all  Georgie Spunkface's bloodletting, that's the main thing. And we must all say to the nation, That's enough backsliding, never mind your jobs and homes and services, the happiness of these two young millionaires,  that's what the nation should be focussed on.  We should all stop being selfish and concentrate on the important things, like  the monarchy, although I can actually trace my family back further than these Hohenzollern-Saxe-Gotha- Battenberg-Windsor fuckpigs. God Save the Coalition!  I mean Queen. And down with personal photographers, that's what I say. Now.

TAXI FOR MISS MIDDLETON, IF SHE FUCKS UP.

OTHER ROYAL BRIDES.

AND OH, THE STORIES I COULD TELL.

YES, BUT NOT NOW DEAR, NOT NOW.