The day of the Royal Baby Drop (An on the spot report)

Reading Time: 8 minutes

We’ve been on the scramble for the scoop. The run down of just what happened in that fucking hospital. And they’ve closed ranks. Even the Middleton’s uncle Pauline wouldn’t say a bastard thing. Johnny and I absolutely barked questions at Witchell and plied the greasyshit with@_Ungagged‘s annual entertainments budget (a fucking tenner. There’s nothing entertaining about Ungagged!) Luckily the fucker loves Tonic Wine. Johnny and I polished off a bottle of Gordon’s as we drilled him, but to no avail. He just kept crying, “I was once a war correspondent! ” and was sick over his shoes. “Fucking get him more booze! ” I shouted, and Kirkwood the weather showed up just in time with the BBC. “I’ve pointed at weather pictures for twenty years,” petty cash cheque book.

The next thing I see are two walking Union Jack’s saunter into the pub, as if madmen like that are entitled to fuck with our brains! Johnny shot up, grabs a fucking dolly, YES A FUCKING DOLLY! from one of them, opens the door and throws it like he’s a fucking All Black. One of the horrors, grabs Johnny and starts shouting filth that sounded like, “Yoir aw fukin ripublicin muthdirin batathrd!”

The bar was in uproar. Witchell was sobbing, Kirkwood was taking the opportunity to grab a few bags of salt and vinegar and the Murdoch mob almost had their old chaps polished to nothing.

Weatherall, the barman with the wit of a fucking cow on Mary Jane, crashed through the plywood bar door, grabbed the screaming Union Jack Jock and threw him after his fucking doll. His little side kick squealed something Glaswegian and ran out. Thing is, he forgot HIS doll.

We are in lock down while we decide a course of action. More later. Out.

Next Morning…

Fuck. Things degenerated last night. The Prince Doll is in a secret location. Weatherall guarded the premises all night, while we debated our next course of action over three bottles of gin, a bottle of vodka, and many reviving euro-lagers. Let’s see how this plays out…

Later…

All taking turns watching the door. Shut-eye in the toilets only. Staying alert. The madness that has overcome the nation could be infectious. The Prince Doll owner has been seen again outside, grinning with other Windsor Worshippers. It’s only a matter of time. Witchell has been given leave to chase the next story. Could be a death, anniversary or birthday, WHO KNOWS? We plan to stake out the Albert Hall, The Mall and that fuckng hospital. And the brewery isn’t due for a day and a half. Ends. (More later, as it happens)

Much Later…

Prince Doll owner broke through our defenses. Weatherall had to open the cellar for a local plod – a few bottles keeps them from dispersing our late night journalistic plenaries.

I was on point, but had been reviving Johnny with one of those caffeinated alcho-fizz concoctions  – he’d fallen asleep during a particularly frantic description of the scrum around the Duke of Wessex opening ceremony at a state of the art traffic cone emplacement training facility in Hull, by Roderick, the intern at Halt! magazine, the industry publication for traffic diversionary logistics.

He missed the sorry tale of Wessex fending off questions about his great nephew. According to Roderick, Wessex seemed to know as much about the sprog, the mother and the father as he did traffic cones, and almost ran through the grinning mob of halfwit local press nine-to-fivers.

Anyway, as I was administering said pick-me-up, the union flag clad working-class chap walked across the fucking Rubicon River like a triumphant, cross-eyed, vacant looking version of Caesar returning from his victory over a fucking deer filled forest.

The chap walked unadulterated to the bar, annoyingly after 27 hours of our strategy and rotational keeping dick. Johnny immediately came round stood up and without saying anything, ran straight out of the bar! With Weatherall in the cellar, Witchell already digging for the next Windsor event, and everyone else fucking sleeping, I was left to deal with the threat! More later. ENDS

30 mins later…

London, 2018.

And a grown man dressed in a Union Flag three piece suit and tie, is sobbing into a pint of British Lager. He’s lost his doll. His baby doll. Not just any doll, but a Prince Windsor Doll. I have a dilemma. I need this scoop. I need to get to the heart of darkness.

But, I know who has the doll. I don’t exactly know where the doll is, but I know where the person is who hid the doll. He’s in the cellar, with a police officer. And I’m here, with perhaps the most dangerous Scotsman in London.

What would you do? I’m a journalist. I’ve got to understand. Or at least, I must report. I’ve got to find the facts. I’ve got to stay neutral. I’ve got to get on that dingy and navigate the Nùng and befriend this Colonel Kurtz. There is only one thing to do.

30 mins before…

I got up from the table and moved slowly towards the gammon dressed in a deckchair. He was grinning. They all grin. Or weep. Or curtsy. The Windsors think most of us do. Their public either chase them on fucking mopeds or weep, grin or curtsy. They really do think we are cunts.

The Dolly man walked over to the bar. And waited. Grinning. And I knew Weatherall and the officer were sampling a few Jameson’s.

“Yes?” I was trembling. I had walked through crowds of them at Royal do’s before.

But they are distracted at those. This was an isolated one, and we HAD to talk… I needed to find out. Where does this madness start? Is it dangerous? Can anyone catch this… This condition? “Ahm doon tae see tha we’an.” He spoke. He could speak.

“Do you like booze, my good man?” I replied.

I felt stupid. Somehow inferior. This man was here, displaying for all to see, all that he was. An honest man. And here was I, about to dissect him & read his entrails. He looked me up and down, and smiled wider.

“Yoo tha barman?”

“No, but I can get you booze,” is all I could reply.

My mind was all over the place, and it’d been half an hour since my last gin.

Fucking war correspondents? Fuck them. War is predictable. Soldiers, drones, terrorists even-they have physical laws.

A Scot dressed in a Union Jack in Ye Old Cheshire Cheese is something the late Stephen Hawking could never have predicted. More later… ENDS.

Continued…

Nature’s gentleman. Le bon sauvage. Here he was, standing, a human labarum. The very essence of all Royal Propaganda, since Julius Caesar and before, had created. This was not a man, but the epitome of the fealty Aristocracy ventured to create since the legions finally left the Britons, defenseless and ready for exploitation. I poured him a Lager.

“Do you dress like this every day?” This was me dallying around the edges. But I had to work around the circle to find a gap in the defenses. I needed to know his purpose. His raison d’etre.

What culture was this? Was there a place where such nobility roamed?

“Aye man. Me an ma da, we are Sco’linds biggest Royal fans, man.”

I was in danger territory here. I could tell this warrior could turn on me if I pressed the wrong keys. I could sense this man was highly tuned. His senses were on alert. He knew the doll was here. At this point, I have to tell you, it was not my intention to torture this soldier. My intention was to help. And giving him the doll was not a kind thing to do. And I knew.

He was playing with me. This could end in violence. I almost collapsed with the weight of what was happening. It had to stop.

“You are here for the doll,” I said, unwavering from my mission. I had been deserted by the corps. But I was going to take out the machine gun myself.

“Aw pal, hae ye saw it, ye ken whurr it is, like?” His language, his sentence structure was unfamiliar, but I was getting the gist. His eyes bore through to the back of my head. This gladiator was close to winning. I was sweating, and almost ready to cave in. But I pushed on.

“There may be others who do. But I am not obliged to say, dear chap.”

I turned away. I couldn’t bear his fucking eyes! Heavy, empty, like the blackest part of the universe, sucking in light, but unseeing. I poured something into a glass. Fuck knows what it was, but I downed it.

“Ye ken whurr tha babbie is?” I was trembling. I poured something else and downed it.

“ITS DEAD! THE PRINCE DOLL IS DEAD!” I turned & looked at him, ready to grab the ice bucket in my defence… And the fucker cried.

This was a weapon I had not thought about using.

This was a man with an armoury like the Tower of London, and he chose his weapon well.

“FUCK!”

I thought about throwing up down my shirt. I thought about pissing myself. I thought about playing dead. But none of these could out manoeuvre his globular tears splashing in the pissy British Lager.

And then Witchell walked in. He looked as if he’d been wrestling with Katie Melua’s new album. His brow was pinched like a dehydrated pugs anus. And he spotted the sobbing wild man at the bar. It was too much. I tried to shout,

I WANTED to shout, “NO! THINK OF THE SCOOP!” But Witchell was on him like Trump stuck in a lift with Macron. Only the passion was played out through Witchell’s long nails, gouging, scratching, ripping at the bust mattress that had been Scotland’s only Royalist.

As they clawed, screamed, slapped and flapped, I knew I had to wait. Witchell was the professional. If anyone knew how to get to the essence of the story, it was him.

The name of every Royal baby in living memory has been announced by Witchell.

His disappointment this time is so great in being involved in another story that, this time, will go with him to the grave. Louis was not to be his. This was given to the new boys on the block The Sky News Sharks. The propagandists employed by Putin. CNN. The wannabe Jennie Bonds of the Alternative Media. Breitbart heiled a new leader of men, Buzzfeed proclaimed the name ten minutes before Kate was told she came up with it.

And Witchell was behind bars, sobbing the name “Louis,” like a dying Charles Foster Kane.

How did it end like this? Well, the Royalist Scottish walking Union Jack wasin Ye Old Cheshire Cheese, searching for his baby doll. I was raiding the bar, unable to carry out my duties as an investigative reporter. The fucker had defeated me like no one since Diana had.

This symbol of Royal power-the essence of power- the axle around which the whole British system turns, stood crying into his pint knowing the rest of us had to turn as he did. No power in Britain would exist without this man and his doll. And he couldn’t have it. This man denied the chance to demean himself, kissing and caressing this battery operated Prince “Louis” Doll could bring down the whole institution of hereditary power.

Or not.

We knew this was a test.

But, Witchell, frustrated by the younger, e-journos beating him to Royal announcement after Royal announcement was too much. He saw his scoop dead, drowned, shattered. And there in the bar, stood the diversion, the image that encaptured all that was wrong with the succession of new media “journalists” sitting on his rightful throne, the one he had taken from Sergeant Major Jennie Bond after she had retired.

He grabbed Union Jack Jock by the neck and pulled him off the barstool, just as Weatherall walked in from the cellar with Constable Barns, who was grinning from ear to ear holding the fucking doll aloft!

 Everyone froze.

I’ve never heard a silence like it.

Almost as quiet as the News of the World Christmas do, 2016.

I ducked behind the bar, saving the nearest bottle of something, unscrewing the lid and glugging  something sickly sweet down my gullet.

When I awoke, Weatherall was brushing up glass, and the bar seemed to have lost the seige atmosphere.

“What happened?”

“They named it Louis.”

“Fuck.”

“Mr Witchell, the doll man and the doll are in custody.” And bail was posted by a Mr Cambridge, showing how our press, our public and tat are bought, recycled and trussed up by our betters.

ENDS

Prick Knobinson, Royal Correspondant 

Prick Knobinson, Royal Correspondant

Reading Time: 3 minutes
                          Prick Knobinson
Philip Richard (P. Ric., or “Prick”) Knobinson-Canute is a journalist best known for his weekly column, “Last Orders,” in the high end magazine, “Fox and Turf,” and also notorious for a feckless and chaotic career and life of alcohol abuse.

He became associated with the louche and bohemian atmosphere that existed in London’s Soho district, Glasgow’s Merchant City, and Milton Keynes, “Cock and Bull Bar,” the hang out for the new city’s literati, in the early seventies.

Early Life to Present:

Knobinson’s father, Lord Freire Knobinson-Canute was the hereditary Lord traditionally tasked to clear animal excrement from path the Monarch of the United Kingdom if they had to walk on public paths. This role was made largely symbolic in the late 20th century , though was more recently reinstated for Prince Philip’s 1998 visit to Liverpool. This reinstatement of the role (taken up by P. Ric’s older brother Arthur), led to the resignation of the Prince’s advisor for insensitivity after riots and Liverpool temporarily leaving the Commonwealth. This led to the famous Tony Blair brokered Liverpool Peace Deal on Ash Wednesday that year.

Knobinson’s mother was the Opera Singer, Dame Ethel Appleby, who famously said about the Beatles in the early sixties, “They are common Cockroaches for plebs.” Appleby left her husband in the late sixties, and joined the famous Andy Warhol led Operatic Society, “Quod Fabrication,” had an affair with Lou Reed, the singer with The Velvet Underground, and was found dead in Hotel Chelsea, New York, lobby after a session of snorting cognac with William Burroughs.

Knobinson attended Abbotts Chalmsley school for Boys in Chelmsford, for two and a half weeks, but the Principal ordered him onto a train back to London as he was, “Quite simply, uneducatable.” His mother home tutored him until he attended Cambridge, majoring in the Literature of Henry Miller, Anais Nin and William Wordsworth.

When he left University, he was given a job on The Times, through a contact of his Father’s. He reported mainly on Debutante events and Public School sporting events for around a year before, as he put it in one of his later columns for “Fox and Turf;”

“I discovered jazz, women, gin, hashish, vodka, wine, my penis and that my father had a huge stash of bonds lying around his study he didn’t even know were fucking there.”

He asked his editor if he could change the nature of his column to one of reporting on his Soho adventures. This was granted after money changed hands, according to his ex wife, the classic knitter, Estelle Lauder (an allegation he has always denied). Part of the alleged deal was that he use his Royal contacts to report on Royal events.

After his infamous interview with the estranged wife of Prince Charles, Diana Princess of Wales in which he caused her to cry and then slap him after he asked her why she “hated Britain,” he was sacked.

This led to him being hospitalised after what he described as,
“Six months of living in clubs, pubs and sleeping in the bedrooms, cars and wardrobes of rich and famous celebrity wives.”
Knobinson joined Alcoholics Anonymous, and then successfully sued them for a reportedly £1m for refusing him entrance to their groups after some of the meetings he was involved with transformed into riots.

Knobinson by chance, met Prince Philip, an old family friend, in a drinks reception at a polo match in Argentina (“I have no fucking recollection of how I managed to be in South America,” he wrote in 1992) who arranged a column in The Guadrion, which along with his “”Fox and Turf” columns formed the basis of a west end play based on his life, starring the TV actor Don Estelle in the leading role.

His new found fame earned him a late night TV chat show, “Jazz with Prick,” in which he interviewed famous jazz, pop, rock and blues artists over the course of a six hour drinking session. After three episodes, one in which he and the pop star Peter Andre drank seven bottles of champagne and a bottle of brandy, then drove a golf cart through a Tescos window to, “give access to the homeless” the TV company, “Shit-stir Productions,” went into liquidation.

Knobinson made a return to writing columns about the seedier side of life in the late nineties Lads Magazine, “Gonads,” while reporting on Royalty for Steve Wright in the Afternoon for Radio 2, then in 2008, The Sunday World.

He was absolved after accusations of phone tapping for the News of the World, when it was found that everything he wrote about Jeremy Clarkson, Prince Andrew and the Irish girl group B*witched was verifiable and in actual fact, had been videoed.

Knobinson has recently been employed by online magazine, Ungagged.

Introducing Our Royal Correspondant

Reading Time: 6 minutes

As the British Queen hits 92, Prick Knobinson introduces himself and his remit in this article.

     Prick Knobinson, Royal Correspondant

Welcome to my Royal column. That’s what I say regularly at night to the wife. She hates that.  The feeling is mutual.

Anyway, enough about me, I’m going to drink my daily bottle of London Gin while I talk to you about my favourite fetish, the British Royal Family, all of whom I have intimate relations with.  Well, I report on them.  Which is hard work.  Its like, “here we go again, another plaque unveiling, or another royal baby has been dropped,” one day, and, “fuck me if its not another affair we cant report on because Prince fucking Duke of York or Wessex will sue us if we publish the awkward pictures,” sort of thing.

I was delighted to see my old drinking partner, Prince Charles, voted in as the next leader of the Commonwealth.  His story, one of adversity and humble beginnings, is one that shows anyone can become what they want to be.

Charles, brought up in a council house, and who ran away to the Navy after he was given a boat, had no ambition beyond talking to plants.    It’s a testament to his determination in later life that he has at last, toppled his mother from the position she has held most of her life in the unanimous decision made by despots, puppet Presidents and dodgy “Royalty” across the Empire.

Its all go.

369 years ago, the British abolished the Royal family.  After a dreadful few months or so, the Royal Head was stuck back on (not literally, as the axe had fallen on his neck and lopped it off… metaphorically, as we found a new person to brighten up the pages of Ye Olde checkout magazines.)

How miserable we would all be if we didn’t have the Royal’s to brighten our lives here in Britain, and now hopefully soon in the new series of “Suits?”  Megan Markle will no longer be worrying about who her next series affair is, as the spoilers are out.  She is to marry the Prince with the wonderfully colourful Celtic hair colour.  If you aren’t interested in all of that shit, and hate them, you are just a miserable old bastard who has no sense of decorum, or are a democrat or some stupid thing that has no place in Britain.

So, some of my favourite facts about the Windsors…

1.    Prince Charles has got a huge collection of medals.  These range from doing things like not sinking the unsinkable boat he was given by his mum’s pals to stay away from wars on during the seventies, and for adding capital letters to stuff what he wrote for the first time when he was in Year 6.  He is also a General in the Army, an Admiral in the Navy (its nice he kept his navy career going , even when his only ambition was to be tampon for his now related wife) and he is a Chief Marshall in the RAF. His other medals are really those coins you buy for Queen’s Jubilees and Coronations and shit like that because he bravely attended those ceremonies.

2.    The Queen chose Harold Macmillan over Rab Butler as Prime Minister in the 1950’s and then Alec Douglas Home over Butler in 1963.  This was for two reasons.  One she didn’t really like Butler and two, she thought the Tories actually really had put forward a real butler as a candidate, and those are really just for lifting the corgi poo from the carpet.  She also chose to rid Australia of an elected representative, and Government, in the seventies.  Such is her prerogative, and that’s what a Monarchy is for, so fuck you, right?  Well, sometimes that is the attitude a leader needs to take.

3.    The Royal Family are Britishness all in one family.  They are us.  We are them. Except they have big houses, yachts, the freedom to go wherever they want to without a passport and never have to spend money.  And none of them are yet black, beige, catholic, muslim, jewish, or anything else that is supposed to be British. We all aspire to their clean living Protestantism.  All religions and colours in Britain should.  Being British is eating when the Queen eats and setting down your fork when she does.  When I was last at a royal banquet, I made sure I got all my food (literally, when she stops eating, the plates are cleared!) as soon as she started eating, I belted that food into me.  When it looked like she was stopping, I stuffed the roast potatoes and the meat they’d shot specially for the guests the week before with a fuck off big machine gun in their private shooting place in Scotland, into my pockets. I was the only one out of 200 people who managed to eat every bite, albeit eating the stuff in my pockets when fucking Prince someone or other was being verbally wanked over by some Masterbator of Ceremonies, or whatever his title was.  Poor Nicolas Witchell only had half a starter, a nibble of grouse and a floret of broccoli.  He’s a cunt anyway.  And the Royals fucking hate him. Charles cant bear the awful man. Anyway, meals with the Queen sum up the class divide.  The poor just aren’t that quick in grabbing stuff.

4.     The Christmas message and her speech to Parliament.  The Queen drafts her own speeches.  While she does, she serves us the necessary bland platitudes and the hit with the poor – the usual, “I kind of love you, but don’t touch,” stuff. Then comes the hard hitting message she reads out from her chosen Tory Government, which shows she is no push over and wants to get that austerity out there.  Its like, “I love you, you fucking trilobites, go beg in a food bank, I love my family and yours.”  If you think the Queen is all about family around a Christmas tree, well fuck you.  She can do politics like the rest of them and impose the bedroom tax on greedy poor people with too many rooms in their council houses, but loves them all the same, but don’t touch.

5.    The Royal Houses, with all those lovely spare rooms to walk the dogs. Paid for by a grateful British people.

6.   Our democracy.  Without the Queen, we would not be able to compare our democracy with others like Saudi Arabia or Swaziland.  We can do that and say how shit they are, as she kindly asks their despot leaders and Royals over for tea, and a right old Royal drink now and again, just so the Socialists and that lot can protest outside.  That’s really considerate of her… because the people in Swaziland and Saudi Arabia would be put to death or something for doing those things in their own countries.  Its protest by proxy. Expect Mr Assad for a banquet in the coming years, well, after he has completely crushed those who asked peacefully in 2011 for an election… and let’s see who on the left will protest that nice ophthalmologist.  They certainly don’t want to do that at the moment, eh?

7.    Equality.  The Queen sees all her subjects as her equals.  She regularly says in privy council meetings with her government, “I’m the top socialist in the country!”  We can’t report that, so I’m going to add, “allegedly” to that previous statement, because it is illegal to report or talk about any of her opinions and of course, she is exempt from the Freedom of Information Legislation. She thinks everyone will eventually have the same dole money as her. But I can’t say that. So I won’t.

8.   She strikes agreements with Parliament about her income.  There is no longer a Civil List of those who get our money, she now gets a “Sovereign Support Grant,” which means she gets more money.  Not her fault, of course… it’s just the way things worked out with her relatives, the Tories. She is allowed to choose how much tax she pays.  Charlie’s Duchy company doesn’t pay corporation tax, because if it did, it would go bust.  I mean, who would give that idiot anything to run with the same rules as the rest of us?   The man, for all his wonderfulness and regality couldn’t grow cress without giving the seeds a fucking speech and relying on the Royal fucking arse wiper to water the bloody things.

9.   The BBC.  The BBC, and the ITV channels love to report on the Royal family, as it isn’t real work.  Really, it isn’t, and a good Royal colour parade or sprog drop can help when we don’t want to shop on our tory friends for incompetency, scandal or thievery. Best of all is when they cark it at 120 years old  – then the whole country seemingly comes to a halt.  Well, so it seems if you aren’t in the know.  All sorts of illegal shit goes down when a Royal Highness hits the floor.

10.   They’ve stopped marrying their cousins to have children.  They marry outside Royalty, have children, dump the spouse and go back to shagging each other once the bloodline has a few different strands of DNA.

Let’s hope she gets a new Royal Yacht.

So, I hope you absolutely loved this piece of important stuff about the Royals as much as I enjoyed my bottle of juniper.  All stuff about the Royals is important.  I mean, if you don’t like having a hereditary head of state, why the fuck are you in our country?

We are all British now.

Except those who thought they were.

Until next time, God Save Her and all the rest of the Royals across the world, except those from Royal families not related to and shagging each other and each other’s spouses.

The bottle has been drained. Get another one.

Fuck off.