Not Saying I Would… But If I Did…. This I How I’d Do It: Kill The Queen

I have nothing against the Queen. I don’t think about her either way. Dead or alive. She inhabits that nothing part of the brain reserved for ex co-workers and those Facebook friends that found you in the last 9 months – even though Facebook has been going for years - The people that you never think about.

I do sometimes wonder if money would be worth more if she died. The way that art becomes more valuable when an artist dies. She is on all the money in the UK, Australia, NZ and in Fiji and so when she dies will those notes and coins become a finite reserve and therefore limited edition pieces? That would make them worth more, right? Okay, so having a £20 that’s worth £20.32 is a bonus but I’m not one of those guys that would kill her for 32p. However! I’m not saying I would kill Her Majesty The Queen… But If I did here are some ways that I might go about it.

Leave some poison lying around.

Not saying literally a loaded gun on the bench top or a bottle of poison on the side board. I’m saying Charles needs fuck all encouragement to knock the old bint off. I think you do one of those BBC costume drama things that middle England seem to love so much and insert a How To manual into the story line. You know? One of those shows with the horrendously loooooong plots, the ridiculous clothes and over wrought performances that everyone seems to like. Then you just let slip the 3 or so best ways to kill your mother and get away with it… Maybe Simon Cowell could mention them after judging the acts…

Give her a heart attack.

The Ginger one looks odds on to do that. The Nazi uniform must have given the old bird a wobble. She must have seen that in The News Of The World and clutched at the Fred Perry logo on her lapel. One strategically placed CCTV camera in one of those Mayfair club toilets… and I think we can put her over the edge. The little Ginger on his knees doing lines and saying things like, “I mean honestly. Look at me. Do I look like that big-eared Twats kid? I’m ginger for fucks sake.”

Hide the little bell.

You know. The little bell she rings every time she wants anything. Just hide the thing. The slaves aren’t going to beat themselves up bringing things to her that she hasn’t asked for are they? And she’s not going to be able to find anything in that house. There are whole wings of that place that nobody has even been to for years. When Diana was alive her and Mario Testino used them to shoot Readers Wives style amateur porn in them and the furniture is still covered in cling film and Marmite… or at least a substance that look like Marmite. Nobody knows because nobody goes. Without her little bell The Queen is useless. I hear that she hasn’t chewed any of her own food for nearly 20 years and instead has these people that are like those fishing birds with the tight brass rings around their necks they use in China . These particular servants are equipped with S&M chokers which enable them to chew food but not swallow it. So they chew up her cheese on toast in the kitchen and then she rings her little bell and they all come trotting into the TV room and spit the contents of their mouths into her mouth and she simply swallows. True. Fucking. Story. Without the bell she’s gone.

Give the Corgis rabies.

Do what they do in those inner city prisons like Pentonville when they fling tennis balls filled with drugs over the walls into the exercise yards. Except this time don’t fling tennis balls, fling infested chicken. The Corgis find this chicken and eat it infecting them with some sort of Rabies or Corgi Small Pox disease (admittedly I am not a chemist nor am I proficient in the development of germs for germ warfare) and then let the newly ‘enhanced’ Corgi’s turn on her. I hear that a pack of angry Corgi’s can devour a human body, bone and all, in… 2-weeks! Not exactly Piranha but the job will get done… eventually.

Invite Michelle Obama back.

The Queen nearly shat herself when Michelle Obama touched her on the shoulder. That would have been the first time she has ever been touched by a black person - unless you count the little kids that give her the flowers everytime she goes to one of the colonies to rub their faces in the fact that they have still never really recovered from the self esteem blow that was dealt them by sending a bunch of Eaton educated mustachioed goons with rattan down to smash some civilization into their thick ethnic skulls. I bet she wandered around her house doing a stock take of all her stuff after they had left: “The Shield Season 4 box Set – Check.”

Send her a bill.

The Queen costs the Tax Payer £34.7 million a year! Holy fucking shit. Does she have a tunnel that goes from her house to Vegas where she has a floor at every hotel booked and filled with cocaine and oiled up whores sitting in specially made Bugatti Veyrons that drive through the corridors and when they reach 3 miles on the clock she has them destroyed - on call 24 hours a day?

Is she actually the 14^th son of an Arab oil tycoon that is so bored by everything that he can’t feel anything anymore and so he makes snuff films using Eastern European children and is constantly having to pay law enforcement off?

Has she tried Crystal Meth… once.

I couldn’t spend £34.7million a year and all I think about is how I would spend 34.7 million a year if I had it. She is buying toilet paper from Harrods. Send her the bill and make her work to pay it off. Nothing kills people faster than working. Nothing. R.I.P.

Let God Save The Queen.

Let’s do as the song says. Let’s stop using science and medicine. She’s the head of the Church of England. She’ll be fine. No more doctors when she starts oozing the old-person-paste from her hoo-ha. No more teams of medics every time she falls in the shower

Next time. Let her pray. Ask God to save her. In fact, lets extend that service to all the religious zealots out there. You have God and we’ll have science. Fuck ‘em. They can’t have it both ways. They say there are no atheists in the trenches – well there are fuck all believers in the cancer wards either.

Or maybe we could just wait. I mean we all die eventually. That’s the great thing about death. It doesn’t discriminate. No matter how rich or noble or ridiculous you are you still end up in a puddle of our own insides limping towards the light like a giant fucking moth.

xxx

Next time:

Not Saying I Would… But If I Did…. This I How I’d Do It: Talk A Jumper Of A Ledge.