Notes From Cuckoo Island

Charles Philip Arthur George, the con-artist formerly known as Prince, displayed his magnanimity on Saturday – it was tucked into one of his jewel-encrusted cloaks – by graciously allowing plebs to stand for hours under incessant rain to watch him float past regally in one of his state carriages, on his way finally – after some 70 years – to be annointed with holy oil. His conviction that he is not only worthy of such an exalted position, but someone whose mere existence merits inviting the populace to pledge personal allegiance to him, is one of the greatest hoaxes in history; the centuries-old sickness in the belief that a natural superiority resides in accident of birth is nothing other than full-blown prostrate cancer.

And so it was incumbent on us lowly mortals not only to pimp his ride – polishing the gold carriage with the spittle of genuflecting forelock-tuggers, installing top notch air conditioning into another AND PAYING FOR IT – but also to adorn his 74-year-old sausage-fingered body with velvet, gold lace, and glistening gossamer strands of pixie hair, which were accessorised with the Bracelets of Sincerity, the Robe of Righteouness, and the Garment of Salvation. (What do you mean, ‘have I been overdosing on Humphrey Lyttleton’s scripts for I’m Sorry, I Haven’t A Clue’? How rude to insinuate the thousand-year-old repression of the revolting masses is some kind of absurd, make-it-up-as-you-go-along, concoction of fantastical claptrap designed to mesmerize the hard of thinking with smoke and bejewelled mirrors. Shame on you.)

Apposite here to thank Abba for their contribution to the occasion with the donation of the Supertunica tunic…a.

The occasion was so historic, Prince Andrew was turned out in the paraphernalia and robes of a Royal Paedophile, following in the long tradition of Royal Paedophiles, whose garb was hand-stitched by specially selected nonces resident in HMP Stafford D-Wing.

The music rose admirably to the occasion – as had Camilla, the former bit-on-the-side of the King, who is now guarded by the Household Cavalry based in The Royal Mews, decades after she first came to public attention as The Royal Muse, based in The King’s Bedchamber. Though I was a little disappointed they went for Parry’s I Was Glad, and not my own composition, I Was Bloody Incandescent.

As for the circumstances, these were highly favourable for the King, who was crowned in colour, unlike his mother, who had acceded to the throne in black and white. Not so for the proleteriat, some of whom were arrested by the Metropolitan Police for handing out rape alarms to vulnerable women as an initiative in a collaboration between Westminster Council and some organisation called the Metropolitan Police, because, as has recently come to light, the main function of the Metropolitan Police is to rape women. And it’s apparently now unlawful to be about to hold up a banner which proclaims NOT MY KING, or to be a journalist witnessing the police arresting people about to hold up a banner proclaiming NOT MY KING. One person was approached by an officer for displaying aloft the satirical magazine, Private Eye, whose Historical Souvenir Issue front page consists of nothing more than the words MAN IN HAT SITS ON CHAIR. Which presumably means it’s presently illegal to wear a hat and/or sit on a chair.

Still, I’m not one to moan. Let’s console ourselves with the free recipe generously bestowed on his people by the King, in thanks for £250M of public money to pay for a pointless day of shoring up his fragile ego, when 68m of his subjects can’t afford to turn on the lights or put food on their table.

CORONATION QUICHE

Step 1

Steal 175ml double cream

Steal 125ml milk

Steal 2 medium eggs…

NB: If you even *think* of sniggering at the phrase ‘loose-bottomed tart’, the Metropolitan Police know where to find you.