Well, after ‘the speech’, I suppose our reigning Royal top dog of Germanic descent, did what a lot of us did, threw another beater on the fire, put what was left of the roast swan back in the fridge, and settled down to watch her favourite TV soap.
Some say that they can’t get enough of the Royal family, and it makes their day to see and hear our Monarch on Christmas day, God bless ‘er. But I can’t help feel that the blinkered of this green and pleasant land are failing to see the bigger picture.
We only have a high status family in this country because we pay their wages. Sixty-two pence per person thank you very much. Why, I could buy an extra slice of wafer thin rat with that! I wouldn’t mind so much, but they breed like rabbits. Oh I know they do a bit of overtime of course, and some charity work, but essentially it’s the under paid who fund their lifestyle. And they’ve been getting away with this scam for years you know.
Let me reduce this situation to a basic humanitarian level. If there was an Armageddon-style attack on this country, who do you think would be the first to be informed, and which family would be the first down the bunker? I can’t see why it should be Royalty, I’m mean, it’s not as if they’re going to re populate the hive/country is it! That lot would find it a bloody trail changing a fuse, let alone changing the plug on the kettle!
Despite being called the Queen’s English, the members of the Royal clan speak an entirely different form of language to the rest of the country, in terms of pronunciation that is. A creche, for example, is what occurs when two taxis collide with each other outside Buck House, and a library door is something you take for a walk and throw a stick for. By the same token, a Soviet isn’t a Russian citizen; it’s what one wipes ones gob with after McPheasant burger and fries, and sex is what the Royal coal is delivered in. And don’t get me started on that bloody silly wave they use!
They get the best of everything, the best education and the finest of food, so it comes as no surprise that our current Royals have an average mortality rate of 173 years per person. It’s time for change, let someone else have a go, it’s only fair. Put somebody on the thrown who enjoys a good berp and a fart, a few beers down the local, and a round of chip sarnies!
I’ve said my piece, and I assume I’ve stuffed my hopes of a knighthood this year at least. Slopes orf, doffs cap, kicks a corgi on exit…
Happy New Year to you all.
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