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Droning on...and on...and
on...and on...and on... |
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Lies, Lies, and more damned
lies... |
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HAMISH DIXON'S DIARY |
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Thursday, December 16, 2004
ROYAL ROGERING REMINISCENCES
I didn't get out of the bathroom for hours. Slobbo had a scrubbing brush on the end of a long pole and by the time he had finished I was raw. Camilla sat and watched him with a glass of gin in one hand and a Gauloise in the other.
"How do you know this louse, tampie?" she asked her swain when he popped his head round the door to see how things were going.
"We were in the navy together," said the royal art critic. "To the best of my knowledge he was stripped of his badges of rank in a dawn ceremony. But he has had his uses over the years."
Nonsense of course, the first part. I left the Royal Navy in a blaze of glory, and am still invited back to the annual dinners for officers who served on H.M.S. Oedipus. But I certainly have helped old big ears out over the years. I was responsible, for a start, for introducing him to the pleasures of the flesh -- although he never quite grasped all the relevant principles, I fear, seeing the creature with whom he's ended up. It was back in on the heather clad hillsides of Glen Scrapie when we were walking together, guns in hand, and happened to chance upon a couple of fresh-faced lithe-limbed young wee maries. The girls goggled at the then youthful heir. I took them on one side and told them that if they didn't come across, I'd have their families evicted from their vile cottages to make way for a bypass round Bridge of Scrapie. So they pulled up their skirts and lay down on the heather without argument, and I pushed his royal tumescence towards them. The product of this fertile union was the most Hanoverian-looking child the prince has ever conceived, an idiot who works in the local Tesco's cutting down cardboard boxes.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
RETURN TO ROYAL RESIDENCE
It was Big Ears, of course, who had snatched me off the street. Only the effete heir to a foreign throne could be so cavalier with personal freedoms in the land of the free. With W to defend our freedoms, one would have thought that this would be impossible. Camilla was in their too, painted like a ho, rubbing her groin like a porno princess.
Obviously Charlie boy had managed to persuade some other sucker to lend him their house (remember when he wanted to borrow mine?). Slobbo rushed me in through the front door of some enormous pile and I was immediately plunged into a deep and scalding bath.
"What the fuck?" said Camilla, pointing at where my organ should be. "Where's his whatsit gone?"
I reached down for my whatsit. It was not there.
"Was that tart-trap of yours a Maybach by any chance, Your Royal Bloody Highness?" I spluttered.
"What's that got to do with your having no dick?" he demanded.
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and on...and on...and on...and on
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