If you are a monarchist. Look away now.

I am going to write about the Royal Wedding.

More specifically, I'm going to write about how I'm bored to fucking tears with hearing about the Royal Wedding - and there's still a cocking month to go.

I'm getting thoroughly cheesed-off with the fawning yards of coverage from our terrible, terrible, terrible, hypocritically-sycophantic tabloid press.

I'm bored of seeing the shops full of terrible twee and cosy tat like this Knit Your Own Royal Wedding Scene kit.

Hmm. Maybe Prince Andrew could get one for his convicted paedophile friend?

Or the endless photographs of Kate Middleton trying to look interesting in a variety of hats.

The Queen of Hats

I'm fed up with the way no-one is supposed to mention that 'hunky' Prince William is bald - and are instead depicting him on coins with far more hair than he has actually got.

- In fact, on this one he's got a fucking quiff! 

(But then again it could be someone else as in this coin he appears to be marrying Dawn French....? )

I'm bored with hearing about how the couple don't want gifts and instead want us to give to charity, all the while both of their respective families are trying to cash-in on their children's big day by selling their own themed merchandise.

I'm unconvinced that everybody in Britain is so very excited for the 'happy couple' when it just appears to be this mad old lady...

... Margaret Tyler from Brent - who has just had planning permission for her William & Kate conservatory rejected by her local council (click her name - it's true!).

And I really can't get excited by the idea of Clapham Common being turned over to Pimms-quaffing 'glampers' who have decided to pitch their tents at a place called Camp Royale early so they can see the Royal Wedding on the (comparitive) cheap.

Camp Royale - Prince Edward should sue

And after the excitement of spending the night sleeping on dew-damp dogshit they can get up early, get jostled in Central London with their backpacks on, glimpse the back of a Pearly King's head, as their tents are all robbed by cockneys.

Then they could while away their dreary evening waiting for the police, who have better things to do, playing with their Royal Family Top Trumps...

It's totally, like, y'know, terrffic fun, yah?

I'm also fed up of hearing how everyone in Kent is having a street party and yet not one person in Hull has even bothered to get off their big, fat Yorkshire arses and applied to have one.
(I never thought I would say this but - I love you Hull!)

And, of course, I am absolutely sick to death of hearing about the laughable notion that theirs is a 'true', 'noble' and 'fairytale' romance borne of nothing but purest love.

I seem to remember this 'fairytale' explanation being used before....

... yup, no problems there. That all worked out just fine.

In actual fact young, horny Prince William saw Kate Middleton parading about in her pants and probably just said "Hello, I am going to be the King. I do like your tits." and then even those pants disappeared from the equation.

 "That's the look, that's the look. The look of lust."

I can't be certain that is what happened, I'm just guessing that you don't really have to work on your patter when you're going to be King.
And you probably don't have to work on your patter all that much when you're stood in front of the drooling  heir to the throne in just your pants and bra.

But like I say, I'm no constitutional expert.

Oh, and I thought I'd just mention that the firm that made those fucking ceramic commemorative dwarves for £1,750 a pop that I mentioned in a previous blog, has out-done itself in the worthless but pricey tat-bollock market by making a three-grand commemorative fucking peacock.

What a load of old toss.

Even the manufacturers of this next pile of shit can't get excited about the Royal Wedding. This lot can't even be arsed to get the right PRINCE on their tawdry fucking cups.

Here's a hint - it's the bald one NOT the one who wishes he was bald.

But nothing, NOTHING, says majesty, dignity and class like these...
Dignity at all times

A Pair Of Royal Wedding Commemorative Pez Dispensers.


For the times when you're SO rapt with joy you just can't co-ordinate your happy, happy fingers to unwrap a fucking sweet and so you just have to click back Prince William's head and have a disgusting brick of sugar flap out of a hole in his neck.

Because - hey who knows? - one day in the far future the Antiques Roadshow will be agog, just talking about how much money these are worth.

Because you know what almost no-one says about Pez Dispensers?
Apart from that they are so versatile, practical, attractive as ornaments and dispense delicious treats?

The OTHER thing that NO-ONE says about Pez Dispensers is what a fucking investment they are.

Apart from Pez Dispenser Collectors.

And they eat fucking PEZ!!!

Their brains are so saturated in glucose that they could be the ones responsible for writing the acres and acres of dribbly tabloid fairyta.....


Now the bequiffed penny drops!

The manufacturers of the Pez Dispensers say they will auction them off and give the profits to the couple's favourite charity. That's not right. You can't just insult someone and then donate money on their behalf.

"Hey, Mum you fat bag. Do you want me to sponsor you a goat for Africa?"

Personally, I won't be celebrating. As a fan of democracy (you remember, that thing we broke but are still exporting around the Middle East?) I'm not a fan of the Royal Family. I don't understand how we can have 'one person one vote' unless that 'one person' is wearing a solid-gold hat because their ancestors were bigger robbing bastards than everyone elses.

Oh, and because God told them to invade places.

Doesn't seem very democratic on the face of it.

I love the pomp & circumstance and tradition of the Horse Guards and so on, I just don't understand why we still need to prop-up a prattling bunch of biscuit salesmen, elderly racists, nancy-boys, Nazi-boys and paedo-pals to justify it all.

But what do I know?

To these people I am a peasant.


Anyway, I hope you enjoy waving your little flags and wearing your hats at your fucking parade. Because there's no prouder sight than an Englishman with a knitted corgi under one arm, a three-grand ceramic peacock under the other, pockets bulging with coins he cannot spend depicting people who don't exist, popping tiny sugary bricks into his sobbing mouth from the neck of the future King, in a conservatory he cannot build for the benefit of two horny Hoorays while hospitals, schools, libraries and galleries shut down all around you.

Enjoy your shiny distraction, Britain.

"Ah, chin ap, Mister Williams.. ya moany old cant!"

I'd rather flatten my cock with a brick.



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