I do consider myself to be a “Royalist” and I do believe that the Monarchy is one of the few things left that define us as a great country. Well, it certainly isn’t our political system or the uber-wealthy tax dodging business folk that frequent our shores and the shores of some idyllic tax haven.
And it certainly isn’t that Twat and his Tart living in their multi million “Cally-Pally” whilst trying to emulate a Kardashian on one hand and Nelson Mandela on the other.
It’s a long walk to freedom and finding freedom doesn’t always happen. I think, Harry old chap, the way that you and your wife are progressing, a better title for your book might have been “Finding Obscurity” to which you seem to be heading towards at a speed only known to Woke Lewis. Perhaps you should take notice of your sister-in-law who seems to be blossoming under the very same pressures that you are running away from.
Back to Wales.
As the sun went behind the clouds, our first minister agreed to open pub gardens to hardy drinkers. Can they use the pub toilets though or does that have to be in the pub garden as well? In fact, talking toilets.....Why is it that campsites are not allowed to open their toilets but public toilets have remained open during the fire-break and second lock-down?
An interesting article in the DM caught my ancient attention the other day. According to them, “Gen-Z” young people, whatever they are, have deemed that ordering and drinking frothy coffee (aka cappuccino) is too old hat. Face Book is only for the middle-aged age group and corduroy trousers should only be worn by the over eighties. Well, bollocks! If you think for one tiny moment that I am going to base my life-choices on the mitherings of a bunch of half-baked snowflakes who begin every sentence with “SO” and think that the word “amazing” should be used at least 3 times in every reply then you’ve got another think coming!
You stick to your Arty Farty Skinny Latte and I’ll drink my coffee how I bloody well like. “Bring me another prawn and avocado cocktail and refill my glass of vodka and lime my good man.”
Talking of self opinionated youngsters, It just surprises me that Rita Thunderburg hasn’t taken herself off to India to berate them for burning fossil fuels on their funeral pyres. And that brings me swiftly on to our proposed and imminent decimation of the gas industry. What are they going to do in the Local Crematorium? Sort of slide us into huge electric toasters when we shuffle off this mortal coil to reduce us to ashes or perhaps a microwave funeral?
“Yeah, sixteen stone of corpse mate. Put him on at 750w for half an hour.”
You can imagine all the mourners sitting quietly waiting for the ping.
***PING***
“Oh well, that’s uncle George done then.”
I think I’ll opt for burial at sea. Julia has always fancied the idea of throwing me off a cross Channel ferry in fact she wanted to do it a few years ago!
AND almost finally.....it has to be said. Forget the £58k and who paid it. Forget the ins and outs of Parliamentary Rules, I think I’d be far more interested in who the flying F*** chose that wall paper and furniture in Number 10 or did that silly Mrs Bojo just do it for a laugh. Surely as a conservative residence a nice grey pin stripe and some pictures of the evil cow Margaret would have been better than something that makes our Prime Minister’s grace and favour residence look like a Bedouin Brothel.
And really finally..........just to excite you all. A sexy picture of me in my tartan swimmies beautifully hand crafted by mother from an old table cloth but TOTALLY naked apart from that.
I’d obviously been talking to a rock again. Not sure if it’s Newgale or Druidston but around the early to mid fifties.
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