Categories
fiction musings

Notes on a scandal

Once upon a time a queen died. She was 96 years old and she died in a big old castle in Scotland in 2022. The Queen, it is said, was a constant rock throughout her 70 year reign over her subjects, which isn’t hard because if a rock isn’t constant, it’s probably not a rock. She had blue eyes and an enchanting smile. She dressed like a stick of Blackpool rock and her hats were always the same colour as her frocks. She even had matching handbags but nobody knows what was in them, if anything at all. She liked horses and corgis and she shot birds out of the sky that had been especially bred just for that. She made sure that many laws that applied to her subjects didn’t apply to her or her land but she was the Queen so you be the judge on whether that was right or wrong.

It is said that one of her dying wishes was to see the end of Prime Minister Johnson, a flabby man that didn’t dress well or own a comb and had so many children even the Queen’s Mathematician couldn’t count them. She didn’t want him dead of course, just out on his ear.

Since the Magna Carta, a paper that says royals can’t be naughty and abuse their power, queens and kings have had to be careful with prime ministers. They don’t have to like them, though. This queen, Queen Elizabeth II, she thought Prime Minister Johnson was a bampot.

Prime Minister Johnson had made the Queen sad by having parties when the Queen’s husband died during the plague. He also made life a bit embarrassing for her by advising her to suspend the Parliament. He did this to stop Members of Parliament asking difficult questions about the Government’s crazy plan to leave the European Union (known as Brexit). Leaving the European Union would cause all sorts of problems for the people and animals and make many of the people cry but the Government said this was just ‘project fear’ and the people who didn’t want this Brexit were ‘talking down this great country’. Later project fear came to pass but that’s for another time when we look at the break up of the United Kingdom.

Anyway this suspension, known as prorogation (that was a big new word for lots of people in the country), was all very humiliating for the Queen because she ordered the suspension on the advice of the Johnson government and then the highest judges in the land said naughty naughty, that was against the law. What was a queen to do?

It was a man called Pincher, who was said to have groped two people at a dinner party (groping is a VERY BAD THING) that eventually brought Prime Minister Johnson down, not the naughty suspension of Parliament or the plague parties or any of the other one thousand and one scandals.

The United Kingdom was a funny old place then and the people were coming out of a plague that killed 190,000 and you just never knew what mud would stick and what mud would slide but either way a mud pie was a mud pie and we all liked slinging them, right?

So the Queen’s dying wish came true and the Queen said goodbye to Prime Minister Johnson and hello to Prime Minister Truss who wasn’t elected by the people but planted by an evil group of plotters who wanted to make the rich richer and the poor starve and freeze. Prime Minister Truss became famous on Twitter for her footballer curtsy and her witch’s hat and her strange fascination with cheese and pork markets.

After she said hello to Prime Minister Truss the Queen died and the people got a new king, King Charlies III. Some people thought that Prime Minister Truss poisoned the Queen but nobody dared say it out loud because in those days any old thing was treason even standing in the street holding a blank sign.

The Queen loved her subjects, and she also knew that all 68 million of them enjoyed a queue. So the Queen, whose favourite pastime was playing Snakes and Ladders with real snakes and real ladders, decided to gift her people a queue. This gift was to make up for the one thousand and one scandals under Prime Minister Johnson and the decimation of public services and the bedroom tax and all the sewage in the sea and rivers and the fact that people had to go to food banks and that fat cat landlords had got fatter and fatter and climate change was destroying everything and low traffic neighbourhoods were a war on the motorist. The Queen wasn’t that bothered about climate change but her son Charles was so she threw that in for good measure.

So the Queen prepared to gift to her people the longest most respectful queue in the world as part of her funeral arrangements. A queue for the Guinness Book of Records. A queue fit for the 21st century. A queue fit for the fifth longest-reigning monarch ever (Louis XIV beat her by two years and was more stylish by a country mile). The problem was she had to die to make the queue.

The Queen was very religious and although she was a Christian we don’t know if she prayed to the God of Queues. The God of Queues is interfaith and was available to everyone in the United Kingdom no matter what their religion or creed. We are still learning about the ceremonies associated with the God of Queues and whole departments in universities are dedicated to researching these curious rituals. The Queen wanted to make a queue to die for and she must have planned it for a long time, or at least have had her servants plan it. The Queue, for it had a capital Q just like the Queen, became a Thing.

There was an Edinburgh Queue and a London Queue but I refer to them here simply as the Queue. Both of these Queues involved people standing in a line for a very long time waiting to see a coffin with the dead queen. The coffin was closed and so the people could only see a box not a dead queen but the people didn’t mind this, they wanted to see the box.

Some famous people made sure they were seen by the box in their best hats. Prime Minister Truss wore a witch’s hat. The wives of the Queen’s grandsons wore large wide-brimmed black hats even though it wasn’t summer. A little princess wore a boater hat last seen in a children’s book in 1867. A lot of men wore funny hats that you have probably seen in museums.

Back to the Queue. The Queue had its own micro-climate, its own App, fans, critics, fawning journalists, tickets, security, sonnets, experts, anthems, selfies, signs, joining instructions, an unwritten constitution, pavement games, Dunkin-donuts, dancing police officers, commemorative memorabilia, three French hens, Twitter threads, TikTok memes, pickpockets, B-list celebrities, Facebook adverts, has-been footballers, jumpers, hipsters, bedazzled toddlers, history makers, history takers, dog creches, fish and chips, chicken salads, gin flasks, tea flasks, tea dances, felafels in wraps, Marks and Spencers hampers, bottled water, first-aiders, blank signs, sugar free Pepsi, men that were dragged off by the police, women that were followed by the police, hawkers, snake-oil merchants, litter-pickers, butchers, bakers and candlestick makers, socialists, monarchists, marxists, scientists, florists, breakfast TV has-beens, and a lot of shite spoken about very little at all.

The Queen, a wee old lady who died of wee old age and gifted her Queue to the masses, would have been thrilled.

Categories
memoir musings

notes on a funeral

Eight hours, Martha Kearney says, eight hours. (And the ten days that went before, Martha, the ten days?)

Nick Robinson has a wee chat with Dame Kelly Holmes. Bright blue is mentioned. And her investiture. And how wee the Queen was. The dame queued and queued just like normal people.

Someone measures something to do with the procession with a stick. I miss that bit. I’m trying CROWN on Wordle. Two out of five ain’t bad.

Chime.

I have one black sweater. It has a chocolate smear around the navel. I opt for the pale green sweatshirt my mother gave me. A cast-off. Warm but pallid. Evanesces my thin lips in a dance across the Forth.

Her death left a giant hole in the global stage.

She was a point of reassurance.

Psalm 42. Put thine trust in God.

Any weeping I do will be for the planet. I well up.

Jacob Rees-Mogg is seen on a bus.

Where are the Oxford commas?

Chime.

She’s got those wonderful blue eyes. That unforgettable smile.

The machinery of state.

Chime.

Over on Twitter a woman calls a baby a fascist.

Over on Twitter it’s CODE For All – Summit 2022. Join in tonight fellow geeks with critiques.

Chime.

She, Truss, will lead a lesson at this service.

I think you’re right, Martha.

She was the mother of servicemen.

The Octopus Energy customer service team is sorry to hear that my smart meter is still not working after six months.

Liz Truss with her husband.

Liz Truss now taken to her place.

Sombre clouds doing their sombre thing on the smiling women standing in the sombre water chest deep.

Royal claret, nearly black.

Not a black dry-robe amongst them.

And the crowd erupting in applause.

Over on Twitter a train silently pays its respects to the Queen.

Over on Twitter video screens are already blaring into an empty park.

Clop clop clop

The Family very much acknowledging the crowd that lines the Mall.

Tethered by ropes and chains.

There is sand on the corners of Parliament Square.

The tradition of moving a monarch.

Two minutes with the frozen peas. Two minutes with the hot water bottle. Repeat. End with the frozen peas.

Overheard on the Promenade: This is where all the antimonarchists are then.

Gem encrusted cross.

The sword.

More from Radio 4. My mum would sneak me into gigs under her coat and How did low and no-alcohol drinks get so popular?

There is complete silence here as the bearer party move into position.

Over on Twitter Mark is #cycling the Innerleithan Granites Gladhouse loop with Cam today.

At the time of writing there are no union jacks on the Promenade or the beach.

A sailor may have fainted.

A little boy on a little electric bike on the Promenade this is a little dangerous.

A BBC commentator refers to older ladies. In 2022. Let that sink in.

So many men. #funeral

In the work of the Lord.

It’s reigning men. #funeral

Let us pray.

They came with their deck chairs and their paddle boards and their water-proof bags for their phones.

My phone rings. I fail to get to it in time what with not finding both crutches.

Take one paracetamol and one co-codamol 15/500 at 2pm.

Scotmid on Bath Street is closed for seven hours.

A Herring gull eats a rat.

The soul of Elizabeth our late queen.

Over on Twitter Andy can’t recall the Scottish stereotypes in it.

Over on Twitter maggots key to crisis-time fertiliser for Ugandan farmers.

The spider in the bathroom sink is not moving despite a poke with a cautious finger.

(Organ music. God save our gracious king).

What do you call a murder of ex-prime ministers (dressed in black)?

An email from East Coast Organics. This is to confirm your payment of £12.73.

Reservoir Dogs.

An email from Microsoft Spam Fighters. Just checking.

So many flies for a sombre September afternoon.

A friend visits with spinach and satsumas and a cucumber and tinned dhal. Ten days after falling off my bike I am still confined to a 40 metre radius.

One of the corgis is called Windsor.

I can see the seat where her Majesty sat.

I make a salad. I limp I make a salad.

Below me now, the coffin.

Below me now, a laughing child.

A fly cannot find its way out.

Buzzing.

I’ve heard the streets are so quiet you could picnic in them.

If that wasn’t treason.

The orb, the sceptre and the crown.

Sirens on Portobello High Street. The rushing silence of a cancelled train.

The Queen’s children and grandchildren.

(I like that Q in italics. See how it curtseys and birls).

Over on Twitter people keep retweeting this humiliating video of Boris Johnson’s failed queue jumping attempt.

Rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.

Three pigeons plucking fleas on the television aerial on the Victorian tenement across the road.

(Organ music. God save our gracious king).

Where the ashes of Princess Margaret are also interred.

A purely private ceremony. (That was a commentator, not me).

The most extraordinary service.

The large black Labrador that sniffs around my crutches.

Broadcasters have bogged dulled deepened.

Eight hours on and time for the debrief.

A dramatic and important development.

4 billion people.

The Archbishop spoke very well.

Over on Twitter surprising degrees of saltiness in accounts describing why naval ratings pull the funeral gun carriage at state funerals…

Over on Twitter Counting Dead Women.

No lettuces so she buys spinach instead.

Profound Christian faith bore so much fruit.

Email: Portobello Community Council notice of 396th meeting on 26th September 2022.

The sovereign always exists, the person only is changed.


The image is taken from the BBC website, today 18 September 2022.

Categories
found poetry

Beckham Wipes Pays

has joined paying seen looking paused shown bowed looked walked pictured wearing paused bared queued wearing joined saying thought coming going speaking was speaking called told meant can speak able meet stood wore had sang was meant did told was be are hear was took were was able have be remember been.

has queued pay will visit been pictured joining viewing cut pictured joining grieving wore opted wore stood lying-in-state died known filming making wearing seen looking waited paying said saw feel meant inspired comforted served have known loved are were forced pause reached read has be paused are sorry snaked predicted appeared paid queuing


Picture credit – Avalon.red (cropped from a picture in The Sun online 16 September 2022)

Categories
found poetry poetry

making history

emotional or beloved or selfless and historic and solemnly and remarkable though dedicated though young though precious but unsurpassed but selfless but faithfully after greatest after kind after touchingly although beloved although moving although emotional before good before golden before inspiring if deep if unparalleled if solemn once treasured once beloved once deeply when historic when dedicated when public so joyous so unstinting so reassuring until difficult until long until inspiring that deep that unparalleled that everlasting as infectious as beloved as esteemed since grand since passionate since greatest

Categories
fiction monologue

Lizzie

The queen is dead. Heavy shite. Saw it coming. Told you she was on her last legs. Told you two weeks ago, pal. Course I did. That wee shuffle. Practically fell out of her baffles. You calling me a liar, pal? Another pint, pal, aye, Tennents. Poor thing. Couldn’t even get back to Windsor for the end. Imagine dying in this shithole. Hardworking right up to the line. Dedicated. True patriot. Don’t make them like that anymore. Must have broke her heart to see Boris go. Judases the lot of them. Best thing ever happened to Britain Boris. Not that Truss is bad. Quite the opposite. But shouldn’t have come to this. Seven quid? For a pint? You a bampot or what? Bring on the tax cuts. What do you mean I don’t pay taxes? Boris would’ve cut them if it hadn’t been for that out of touch Sunak. Couldn’t even put petrol in someone else’s car. Jumped up wee bawbag. Him and his green card and his snickering wife. Most overtaxed country in the world Britain. Lost our backbone. Nats put this country on its knees. Rubbish everywhere and now the rats. Ma poor Mam dying waiting for an ambulance after the rat bite. You don’t believe me, pal? Place was swarming with the fat wee vermin. Saw the toothmarks myself. Puncture wounds that neat could have been a serpent. Everything broken is broken by the nats. All that oil in the north sea and the nats still taxing the shite out of petrol. Change the subject? I haven’t even started, pal. National Mourning, it’s like the sky’s fallen, pal. I’m in National Mourning. Move your head, pal, don’t wan’t to miss it. Fine curtsy and everything by Lizzie there. Just the way I like it. Not like that robot May doing the lumbago to Prince Harry. Or was it some Saudi prince? Not overdressed either. Just the right humbleness. Suits her, black. I’ll tell her that, first time I write. She could do with something to hide her neck though. Scrawny when they’re over thirty. Scarf maybe. Or one of those velvet chokers with a dangly silver bit. Didn’t I tell you she was on her way out? You don’t remember, pal? Course I did. The colour of her hands. All grey around the wrists. Dead giveaway. Two Lizzies together. Dream team. Of course that’s her diamond. Better off here, be nicked otherwise. Anyway all above board. Salt and Vinegar, no, not Cheese and Onion, plays havoc with ma heartburn. Would’ve been a dream team. Lizzie Squared. And her eyes. I could see it in her eyes. Clouded, you ken, like she was jetting off to the milky way. Joining her Philip. Now he was a man’s man. Said it how it was. None of this woke shite, pal. Clean shot at the pheasants every time. Gave him a bad press they did for saying what’s what. All that bollocks about Andrew that lassie was making it up. That idiot journalist. What was her name? Emma something? Got sacked anyway. Heard that on good authority. Could see it in that lassie’s eyes. Mingin wee gold diggers those American kids. One sniff of a prince. What? Course he isn’t a nonce. Not with a mother like that, pal. Her Maj got the new PM over the line. Slipped away. Glad I got that last letter to her. Would have been comforting reading those words. Good at writing I am. Ken Charles would make an arse of it. Pompous pond life. Sucker even gets booed in Edinburgh. The way he treated Our Di. Our Di. People’s Princess. Should have been thrown out then. Defrocked. What do you mean that’s priests? Don’t contradict me, pal. You got Candle in the Wind on the juke box, pal? Barry tune that, barry. Remember that stuff about the tampax what a shitey wee jessie.  Told her that myself in some of my letters. Go straight to Will, I said. Jump a generation. Kept saying. Women need told things a few times for it to sink in. Didn’t get a reply but she’s a busy woman Her Maj so no hard feelings none at all.  Aye, pal if you just wipe the table down a bit. Toasting our Maj, need a clean table! Couldn’t get to the coffin what with the gammie leg and all. Hero Her Maj hung in there to the bitter end. Poor Lizzie. Shouldn’t blame herself. She will, though. Decent woman. Human, you ken what I mean? Caring. Going to put stuff right. All those trade deals and everything. Cheese wasn’t it? Put us on the straight and narrow. On the global map. Growth and what was it? Proclivity, that’s it. Won’t take no shit from no one especially that Nicola. Aye dead right to just ignore her. Polite way of putting it. Lizzie Truss, fine name for a fine leader. I mean they were gunning for Boris. All of them. Not Her Maj but that Sturgeon, Salmond, all of them. That snidely wee Javid. That time Sturgeon snubbed Her Maj. Didn’t even curtsey or nothing. Refusing to let her in the parliament. Vile wee munter. BBC didn’t even report it. They weren’t going to let her in after independence. What pal? Course that’s nae a lie. Apologised for her in one of my letters. Well not for her. You ken what I mean, pal. Stopping her at the border. Imagine. Pond life. Of course it’s true. You’re either not looking or you’re stupid, pal. That woman devoted her life to this country and they were going to boot her out just like that. Marxist wee shites. Taking the castle and looting the jewels. Sturgeon that stopped ma benefits. Aye denied it but we all know. What do you mean it wasnae her, course it was, pal. And her taking dark money too. Hiding behind them fancy shoes. Who goes to work in shoes like that? Can’t even get the traffic flowing. Bloody cycle lanes holding everything up. Can’t even get parked in ma own street. Even refused to put Her Maj on Scottish bank notes. Pathetic. They wanted her off the passports, too. Sent her one of ma passport photos in a letter. Women like to see a face behind a name. Shed a tear when I heard the news. More than a tear. I greeted, pal. Proper greetin. We all did. Bet she was pissed to die in Scotland where the nats hate her. Aye, all pretendy now. Gushing. Don’t’ know what I’ll do without her. Got ma jubilee mug, though. What, you don’t have a jubilee mug, pal? You glaikit wee shite! Only the one chip after all these years. Charles and all that shite about the climate and tampax. Jesus we could do with some more warm in Scotland what with the nats cutting off the energy and free tampax for everyone. Scunnered the economy the pricks. We’ll rue the day that’s what I say you ken we’ll rue the day the queen is dead.

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