My body has become addicted to the St Mary’s Hospital A&E, and the Rehabilitation ward. The amount of lumps poked, prodded and cut from my body could be shaped and animated and actually be one of the septic bastards making up the newly returned Tory Government. Thanks to Ungagged, as I lie here with a dextrose drip, recovering after a fall on the hospital’s spotlessly clean floor (whilst slowly seeking a toilet to save my dignity rather than being wheeled on a trolley to shit with nurses attending and telling me to push harder like some young mother in her first and looong Labour), I’m writing again.
They’ve asked me to write about Mrs Simpson. Ms Markle. That absolutely wondrous antidote to monarchy. That woman who, with a husband who is determined to avenge the death of his mother, is placing flashing signs above bigots who wake up in the morning and think, “how can I use my fucking idiot social media followers to amplify my anger and bigotry, for money,” rather than blaming injections of valium and oromorph for the fact they can’t pay for coffee and the inland revenue because the fucking tipster was far from correct during the previous fortnight (though things are looking up what with my new discovery of online betting I can do on my phone). Some pretend journalists are millionaires, some of us are dripping from a gurney in a ward while some maniac screams behind a curtain about locusts in his goolies.
Harry and Meghan are a part of a sick, old body. Monarchy is being pumped with steroids and hemanevrin and by leeching, old, fame seeking bastards like Eamonn Holmes.
Lester Piggott, the old jockey who won me a suitcase full of money and lost me two, once told me about a friend of his pointing out a loose horse running wild alongside a country lane they were driving on and asking, “shouldn’t we catch it?” Piggott replied, “No. Never catch a loose horse. You can end up all day holding the fucking thing.” The Family know this now. The loose horse, Diana, is still shackled to their bleeding wrists, kicking and smashing the fence. And soon her efforts will mean the fence comes down and they are all dragged through the gaping escape hole.
St Mary’s generosity with drugs has me talking to a shimmering royal couple, laughing about their nonsense of wanting to stake out a, “progressive way forward,” in the most regressive institution at the top of any Western government in existence except for the fucking Vatican with its ghost whispering magician.
Harry weeps at my bedside, as I munch on “Gunboat” Dempsey’s hash cakes and vodka jelly. The nurses just think I’m in a delerium caused by the morphine.
Harry hasn’t got over killing of his mother by the bastards with metre long lenses and mopeds. He just wants to be a celeb royalty, using his position for good, reminding the cunts (who surround his memo passing family with systems that ensure he can’t actually speak to his grandmother about anything only the waffle on the agenda), that Diana existed. That they killed her. And pointing at Piers Morgan, mouth open like Munch’s The Scream; the then editor of a newspaper who paid journos to stake out Diana, spy on her and hound her.
Meghan has a mission. She has “Social causes,” she says. “Harry is being very supportive. Lovely in fact. Piers Morgan is being a trolling old racist pervert. And as for the fat, old northern irish prick who clucks like an old hen for publicity…” Her language surprises me. She sups on her builders tea and flexes her feminist bicep, ready to take down any tool of the capitalist patriarchy with a reference to women who shaped America.
They break into a drunken verse of the Sex Pistols ditty, “God Save the Queen.”
“Just to be clear,” I mutter, “The Monarchy is not threatened by you. Piers fucking Morgan is. You’ve been sending out too many press releases about real stuff you are doing, rather than allowing them to jack off over a new Disney, mute, Princess couped up in the Disney Palace at the end of The Mall. He needs to attack you. He gladly paid journalists to hound your mother when he was News of the World editor. He wants plebs to forget that.”
They look shame faced. Shimmering, transparent and shame faced. Sad they have pushed Eamonn Holmes into desperate publicity seeking after Piers stole the racism, bullying limelight.
“Charles is scaling down the monarchy,” I cough. Christ I need an introvenous cigarette. “Your Grandfather embarrassed you all with the new pomp and ceremony he created in the 1950’s. Fuck, the Royal family during the Second World War was more progressive, modern and respected than the shower Phillip sired, manipulated and mentally demolished.”
Meghan suppresses a sob.”Harry and I just want to do good. I just want to be in a real movie, not this cartoon gilded room 101. It’ll all blow over. The Media will treat us like celebs! Our Canadian move will be a boost for the monarchy!”
I shake my head. “He knows [I point at ghostly Harry]. Women in the monarchy always get fucked… Jesus Creeping God! Look at Auntie Margaret, a woman who was kicked, caged and strangled mentally into the subordination of the gin bottle, supplied by Mountbatten and Phil; beautiful, punk rock, Lady in blood Red Diana, mentally neutered until she broke free and was cut down… Even Lizzy, a prisoner of the sexist, racist nazi quagmire created by her cunt of a husband in the 1950’s…”
Harry hates the fact he loves his Nazi Grandfather. It leads to such confusion.
They leave my bedside, heads in hands, on their way to build a fucking great igloo somewhere in the North West Passage.
For a particularly euphoric moment, I praise, loudly, the power and toxicity of the press in the UK… Dumb, self serving, cruel people who call themselves journos, and of course they, like me, aren’t. Followed, retweeted, cheered and enriched by empty carcasses who just want Brexit done, Greta to stfu and America Great again.
My nurse runs over, my gorgeous, foreign, NHS, hard working nurse. He increases my dose of morphine, and boy this cocktail of cakes, laced jelly, legal NHS highs and the secreted blood cleaning vodka from the same bottle I was drinking when I nearly died last Thursday, clutching my chest, sitting on the back step at 3am watching two foxes fuck and make more foxes to enrage the wankers in red coats and their sabateurs, hits the spot.
I tell him,”I haven’t got a fucking job. I write about a fucking soap opera we all pay subscriptions to, whether we want to watch or not.”
“Mr Knobingsaan, you wake whole ward. To sleep you must go.”
“I wrote about a fucking Disney Palace without rides, can’t you fucking see? I’m as bad as Piers!”
He tucks me in so fucking tight I have to wriggle for about twenty minutes to reach the drawer to grab another of “Gunboat’s” hash cakes.
I hate the vicious clucking of the Royal press. Un-raped, rural, deferential Canada don’t consider celebs their property, so the celeb Royals will be protected. What is being missed here is how these brothers are dealing with their grief. William locking himself inside a festering, putrid sarcophagus filled with the rotting corpse of an institution dying at the end of Piers Morgan’s wooden stake like penis. The Petulance of youth, the miscommunication. The upsetting of fragile pretendy reporters like Holmes and Morgan, who would both fuck Donald Trump’s supturating edema and feed on the interstitial fluid he coughs up, for headlines, by an intelligent couple who are trapped by us and banged up by their idiot grandmother who allowed Phil to kill them all. A who dunnit, with the murdering old fucker driving around Sandringham in a blood soaked Range Rover, shooting fleeing minor royals with his gold and bejewelled blunderbuss.
They, of course, should be grateful they are royal. The poor fucker in the bed beside me thinks this place is a five star luxury spa. I have to agree as I remember the fucking £35k bill from the inland revenue I can’t pay because of the electronic casino roulette wheel that just keeps stopping on red.
Holmes and Morgan are crashing the soap opera like institution, as are all of the raging, middle aged angry men who capitalise MARKLE, STURGEON and THUNBERG in the same sentence. Are Brits mad to let them go? Mad to let Canada have them? Of course. Yes. We are. But, we’ll out-racist, sexist and troll each other to be as nasty and unforgiving as we can. We, the important middle aged cunts with the acerbic wits and tiny, untouched penises.
Of course, the Monarchy really must, just, go. It is fucked up caged domestic abuse in plain sight. It’s a corpse being gang raped by the likes of Morgan and Holmes, repeatedly, while they shout, “look at the new oriface I can stick this little thing into now!”
Monarchy- something that began with ego maniac gangsters who warped the witchery of a Jesus they didn’t really want to understand to give them the right to shag everyone’s goat. Monarchy- Now being shagged by Piers Morgan and Eamonn Holmes’s tiny, flaccid toadstools.
I really had intended to leave my body to hepatic experts at The Royal Free Hospital, not to further science but to relieve Weatherall of the burden of a whip round at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese for the funeral expenses. Meanwhile, the gutter millionaire pretend journalists spaff all over the rotting corpse of monarchy while a sobbing Markle and Harry steal my fucking walking aid.