Having sworn an oath to protect her Majesty and her heirs and successors I just want you to know what she means to me. Very fucking little. We met once in a darkened doorway in 1943 during an air raid. I was scouting for bodies to rob, she had just split from the Irish hero Martin McGuinness. I thought at first she was a he, yer normal ghey auxiliary driver just trying to stay alive and find some hard cock like I was. I used all my best lines on her as the Doodlebugs exploded nearby saying how we should embrace this moment in passion as it may be our last, she said her heart belonged to some Greek murderer fella named Phil. I said I wasn't interested in her heart just a go at molesting her sons smooth buttocks. She smiled at my mannish ghey roughness and was violently sick in that dark doorway. I have that effect on weemen. We both exploded with far more intensity than any of the bombs and as we stood there spent and panting, we heard the all clear signal and giggled at the timing.
We apologised to the other drunks who were also sheltering in the doorway and we parted, not knowing our fates would be intertwined from that moment onwards. She would become THE Queen of England, I would become THE Queen of Scallyfornia, Northern Ireland, and Scotland. Although in Scotland they didn't so much heil me, more just hate me for being the bunny eyed queer that I am.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Go ahead... shat on me again.