Douglas Bastard's Rants of Rage


This article was written on 05 Mar 2016, and is filled under Uncategorised.

Clean for the Queen: a patronising load of wankspangle

Do I really need to write this? Really? Yes, it seems that I do. It seems that I do need to write this, in one, quick, angry spasm while there are obsequious shit-fisters around who think that cleaning the country up for a 90 year old unelected head of state whose last day of actual work was sometime around the Blitz and that probably involved tossing off one of the Coldstream Guards around the back of Buck House before getting on with the serious business of forcing ‘Prince’ Charles out of her furry front bottom, a man so thunderously thick that the only thing which can make him look more stupid is when he actually speaks, is heart-stoppingly vile.

You don’t need to clean for the Queen, Britain. Stand down. You should not drop litter because that’s your environment and even animals who suddenly experience a pressing need to void their bowels tend to do it at some distance from where they actually eat and sleep, and they don’t have opposable thumbs. Rule one of environmental conservation, then, is to pick up your rubbish. And that’s it. Pick it up, put it in a bin. And onto this fairly simple rationale, some spurious toady has sought to graft on something that makes me want to rush forth into the streets, strewing litter around and shouting ‘hey nonny nonny.’

The Queen, has not, as far as I know, expressed any thoughts about litter or anything much other than killing animals, horses and… er, well, that’s about it. Once a year, at Christmas, she says words that were written by someone else about things that happened to other people while people’s grandmas doze quietly in front of the TV and wake up to say that she’s looking well. It’s wrapped up in some kind of superficial, outdated understanding of what Christianity is, based on the head of the state church, not a notoriously deep religious thinker as far as anyone can tell, having inherited the job from the last person who did it. Great qualification, there.

What this means is that the Queen has absolutely no insight into what life is like for anyone who doesn’t have a horse and a title which, as a lot of her relatives look a lot like horses with titles, is strangely appropriate. Who’s this coming whinnying up to the breakfast table? That’s right, it’s Prince something or other. Strap on his nosebag, fill it with oats, the lad needs his breakfast. Anyway. She doesn’t know what your life looks like. She’d be hard-pushed to even know what a normal street looks like, let alone come to terms with whether it had a litter problem or not. The only thing she picks up, and then at a push, is a grouse after she or that boneheaded racist of a husband have hacked it out of the air.

If she’s not going to be walking down your street, and thinks litter is something that one’s forbears were carried on by some luckless proles, there really is no point. We can do what we normally do and she’d be none the wiser. None the wiser, in fact, except that some buffoons have been talked into putting on a purple t-shirt and then gurning at the camera. First up, of course, is Boris Johnson, who’d diddle an effigy of the Queen up the shitter if he thought it was going to make people write about him, who held one of those sticks that is used to pick up litter like it was a royal diadem and then gurned at the camera with the horrific air of someone who is bearing down on you shortly prior to the act of coitus. Is this the best they can do?

Yes, as it turns out, because next up is Michael Gove, simpering at the camera like a head prefect who has caught Smith Minor writing FUCK LATIN on his desk, grassed him up and, in reward, been allowed to retire to the school wanking shed with nothing but a picture of the frankly appalling Sarah Vine for company. In the picture, he had wet lips and a stupid, pouting expression which means that you could, almost certainly, never tire of imagining him, wired up to a portable generator of some description while someone sent 50,000 volts through his knackers as he jerked and danced across the floor like a marionette in a thunderstorm.

As if to add to this desperate carnival of howling toss, Kirstie Allsopp spoke up in favour of the whole ghastly confection with all the wide-eyed adoration of, say, a massive wrongmo born into a life of sloth and privilege and who, had she had to rely on her own talents rather than family connections, would probably be spending her days doing finger paintings and trying to remember what she was supposed to do with her socks. Why she exists, I couldn’t say, nor could I say why she’s beamed into the nation’s living rooms on a regular basis to tell us what a prancing horse thinks of houses she’d no more live in than pull her own eyebrows off with a spanner, but why she wants to tell the proles to clean up for the Queen is incomprehensible. Any activity worth its while might, say, involve exiling Johnson, Gove and Allsopp to Rockall and watching as they eat each other, but not, perhaps, listening to this enormous cockwit drivel on and on.

I’d like to take Clean for the Sodding Queen and fire it into the heart of the sun. It’s a supine and grovelling with about as much natural dignity to it as being a homeless person and forced to watch as David Cameron and his Bullingdon pals set fire to a fifty pound note. I hate the idea of it just as I hate the person who thought up the idea of it and the very ground that they stand on, whoever they are. The Royal family are laughable relics of a bygone age and this idea takes the turd at the heart of that idea, sprays it gold and tells us it’s a rare jewel.Well, it isn’t. Clean for the Queen, the Queen, her heirs and successors can all shove off. It’s a turd of an idea, and you’re all little winnatts orbiting around it, expecting us to genuflect to you. Well, I won’t. Bugger off.

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