A Letter From West Britain

A pint of plain is yer only man

Dear Charles,

We’re having the most wonderful time here in West Britain.

The native Celts are such a quaint people, very much like the Scots, but not at all like the Welsh.

I can understand why Queen Victoria was quite taken with the place when she came here. It is such a shame we left them with such wonderful buildings.

We went to this frightfully large football stadium called Croke Park where they showed a video of young men wrestling with one another.

The stadium was so large, one wonders what it must be like on the top floor on a breezy day. Exceedingly windy. A bit like sharing the bed with your father after some haggis and turnips when one is staying at Balmoral one would imagine.

The lovely gentleman presented Philip with the most beautifully carved ash. Will be excellent for beating Grouse next winter one thinks.

These dear people, the really have tried most awfully hard to make us welcome. One dear chap with a large tummy seized the royal forearm quite forcefully in Croke Park. I got quite a little shock to tell the truth. I thought Philip had overmedicated again. Thankfully a dear chap form the police removed his hand before he tried any funny business. Of course your father didn’t notice, he was busy looking at some young girls in short skirts chasing each other.

We also were taken to a large pub that makes its own beer. It was very amusing. The people there seemed to think one hadn’t seen beer poured before. One remembers your aunt’s mother and I cleaning up after Andrew when we converted the Hanover room into a country pub for he and his friends to play in. Those other awful chaps. Your father was most keen to drink the beer they served, but one reminded him that we had been advised not to use the WC.

The Glory of Her Ass

Last night we had some jolly Irish dancing and bagpiping. The accents are most dreadfully funny. One can’t understand a word they say.

Your father keeps talking about the Dear Micks, I fear he may have been talking too loudly when his hearing aid was out of battery.

Today we are going to the National Stud Farm. As you know that’s the real reason one came here.

Still, one thinks it has been worth all the other dreary nonsense if we can get a few of the horses sorted out.

I hope William and Catherine are keeping well. Her sister’s bottom has been causing quite an impression, one has been told by Philip. One hopes it won’t lead to another Anus Horriblis.

Is mise,

Elizabeth R

(Your Mother)

A Curse Upon All of Them, The Inbred Hoors

On Friday two young couples will get married.

One of these nuptials features a young man who was born into privilege, the son a mother of doubtful personal morality and a father who once professed a desire to be a feminine sanitary product. That says it all. It also says a lot about a general public that swoons and gushes frothily at the antics of these inbred cretins.

The uncle consistently tarnishes the good name of British industry abroad through his boorish activities.

The aunt has an ingrained reputation for ignorance and ill manners. The grandmother a pompous old dame, daughter of a stuttering father who ascended his position only due to the unacceptable marriage choice of his brother. Unacceptable? Yes, he wished to marry a divorcee who was also American and a commoner. In doing so he gave up his birthright. As for his grandfather? An accomplished deliverer of the faux pas and the mal mot. Denigrator of slitty eyes and foreign chaps.

The young man will marry a ‘commoner’ the patronising and archaic term held by the British Royalty for someone whose accident of birth renders them far from the world of shooting grouse in vast estates in Scotland; sipping cocktails in the exclusive gentlemen’s clubs of Pall Mall; having their choice of young fillies on or off track; and travelling in their own fleet of limos, trains, planes and boats etc ad infinitum, ad nauseum. . .

Wherever the groom travels people will fall over with their obsequies; his young wife at least has been spared the test applied to determine whether his mother was previously handled goods at the time of her betrothal to his jug-eared buffoon of a father.

What an ill-advised union that was. He wankering after an old flame that could easily have been mistaken for one of his Polo Ponies. She a Princess of Tarts, a bulimiac in the making, trophy shag of a series of upper class twits and army officers. A couple of hundred years ago they would have been executed for treason for dipping that particular wick.

The world will watch agog on Friday at this marriage of privilege and commonage. At the pomp and splendour. People will awe and gape at these sliver spoon mouthed morons flouncing this way and that. And more’s the pity. Peasants glued to the TV on a day off work to watch those who never have to work a day in their cosseted-pampered lives, buoyed up by the general public purse. The very commoners, outside a police security line, that they view with distaste down the crooked line of their inbred nose.

And somewhere else, born into the real world, perhaps bound by poverty and the shackles of a poor job and worse prospects. Two others will join in holy matrimony, commoners, common as muck, common as you and I. And they will embark on a different journey from the two pampered and feted up and down Britain. He born with a silver spoon, she a commoner.

It could be worse, at least she’s not a Catholic.

A curse upon them and a plague on all their bloody houses.