God save the Queen
It is a silly title, as I do not believe in one of those entities*, but I definitely endorse the sentiment. Floreat Aula says what I would like to say, as a loyal subject of the Crown, on this, the day of my Queen's birthday.
However, it gives me great displeasure to read, also at the Reptile House, of the graceless and irritating behaviour of John Humphries, a man who is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is.
That's right, John. I imagine that it was for the same reasons that, given an all-time choice of line-up for her 80th birthday, the Queen would also not invite "Uncle" Joe Stalin, Mao Tse Tung, Robert Mugabe, Fred West, Myra Hindley and Adolph Hitler, i.e. because, like Castro, they are all mass-murdering fucks of the very worst kind.
Nothing so dignified, you fucking supporter of murdering cunts; I'd have you flogged, naked, through the streets of London, encouraging the good citizens of that city to throw stones at your saggy knackers, until you were so tired that all of your internal organs had packed up and shit was dribbling down the inside of your fat overpaid thighs. You utter, utter cunt.
That Telegraph article also compares the salaries of the BBC Radio jocks with what we spend on the Royal Family.
Now bear in mind that all of these bastards are paid for by a forced tax on the citizens of this country, and that they work nowhere near as hard for their money as the Queen does. In 2004, the Queen had 397 appointments; Jonathon Ross, notably absent from this line-up, reputedly gets paid £530,000 a year for his once-a-week, three-hour, Saturday morning show. That works out at about £57 a minute.
One often hears bastard republicans, or "traitors" as I prefer to call them, banging on about what lives of ludicrous luxury the Royal Family lead, and how the money could go towards "building a new hospital" and the like: what kind of life of luxury do we think that Jonathon cunting Ross leads, eh? Half a million quid for 3 hours a week—it makes all of the City fatcats that everyone moans about look positively frugal!
Someone has their priorities wrong somewhere. Especially as I've listened to Terry Wogan in the morning, by the way: you cannot hear a bloody word that he is saying, the bogtrotting, orally-flatulent, mumbling twat.
UPDATE: In a scene as sordid some of my most unpleasant flights of fancy, Cedalion has recast your humble Devil as John Lesley...
* Clue: I do believe in the Queen.
The UK is luckier than many are prepared to acknowledge in both the person of the Sovereign and the Institution of the Monarchy.
...
As a loyal Subject what greater pleasure can there be than to wish Her Majesty very many Happy Returns and to express our earnest desire that there should many more.
God Save Elizabeth II, Dei Gratia Britanniarum Regnorumque Suorum Ceterorum Regina, Consortionis Populorum Princeps, Fidei Defensor, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy.
However, it gives me great displeasure to read, also at the Reptile House, of the graceless and irritating behaviour of John Humphries, a man who is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is.
John Humphrys, the Today presenter, one of the few whose salary has not been leaked so far, was unsure of future royal audiences, however, after quizzing the Queen about why she had not invited Cuba's communist leader Fidel Castro, also 80 this year, to her birthday bash.
"She didn't seem to think it was a very good idea," he admitted later.
That's right, John. I imagine that it was for the same reasons that, given an all-time choice of line-up for her 80th birthday, the Queen would also not invite "Uncle" Joe Stalin, Mao Tse Tung, Robert Mugabe, Fred West, Myra Hindley and Adolph Hitler, i.e. because, like Castro, they are all mass-murdering fucks of the very worst kind.
"She thought in fact you were showing marked communist leanings and republican tendencies." [said Wogan]
"Do you think it's the Tower for me?" asked Humphrys, gloomily.
Nothing so dignified, you fucking supporter of murdering cunts; I'd have you flogged, naked, through the streets of London, encouraging the good citizens of that city to throw stones at your saggy knackers, until you were so tired that all of your internal organs had packed up and shit was dribbling down the inside of your fat overpaid thighs. You utter, utter cunt.
That Telegraph article also compares the salaries of the BBC Radio jocks with what we spend on the Royal Family.
One of the first to greet her was Sir Terry Wogan, reportedly on £800,000 - or more than the total cost of train travel for the entire Royal Family last year.
Then there was Radio 1's Chris Moyles whose £630,000 a year exceeds Prince Philip's £359,000 Civil List payment and the Duke of York's £249,000 official allowance from the Queen combined.
On hand to show her round to mark the 80th anniversary of the granting of the corporation's Royal Charter was Mark Thompson the director-general, on £459,000-a-year - or the cost of tea and cakes for 40,000 at her six annual garden parties.
...
The DJ Chris Evans, who is paid £540,000 - for that the Queen pays for the Princess Royal, the Earl of Wessex and still has change - and Jo Whiley, on £250,000, a little more than Buckingham Palace's stationery bill, were not convinced she listened to the radio properly at all.
Now bear in mind that all of these bastards are paid for by a forced tax on the citizens of this country, and that they work nowhere near as hard for their money as the Queen does. In 2004, the Queen had 397 appointments; Jonathon Ross, notably absent from this line-up, reputedly gets paid £530,000 a year for his once-a-week, three-hour, Saturday morning show. That works out at about £57 a minute.
One often hears bastard republicans, or "traitors" as I prefer to call them, banging on about what lives of ludicrous luxury the Royal Family lead, and how the money could go towards "building a new hospital" and the like: what kind of life of luxury do we think that Jonathon cunting Ross leads, eh? Half a million quid for 3 hours a week—it makes all of the City fatcats that everyone moans about look positively frugal!
Someone has their priorities wrong somewhere. Especially as I've listened to Terry Wogan in the morning, by the way: you cannot hear a bloody word that he is saying, the bogtrotting, orally-flatulent, mumbling twat.
UPDATE: In a scene as sordid some of my most unpleasant flights of fancy, Cedalion has recast your humble Devil as John Lesley...
* Clue: I do believe in the Queen.
| 3 blogger comments
| links to this post
3 Blogger Comments:
First it was Charles Clarke's knob.
Now it's John Humphrey's thighs.
I dread to think what might be next.
"Lord of Mann": sounds a bit Germanified to me.
Ever thought of emigrating to Alabama? Or even MySpace? Murdoch would love to provide a web home for all the BBC haters in the world.
BTW a true royalist would throw out these German usurpers and only recognise the rightful heirs if Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Post a Comment
Links to this post:
Create a Link
<< Home