The Queen marches on Parliament

‘Off with their fucking heads’

Liz woke at 5 in the morning to the sound of Phil and the corgis snoring.

“Fuck one rigid, ” she thought. “There must be more to life than this. Sodding state receptions, unveiling plaques for things I don’t give a toss about, sorting out the messes my bloody family’s gotten themselves into, Harry’s tittish behaviour…”

She tossed and turned but it was no good, she was wide awake now and another boring day beckoned.

Later, after her customary breakfast of All Bran followed by eggy soldiers, she sat reading the morning papers.

There was column after column of reports of MP expenses fiddling and calls for an early General Election but then something she’d never seen before, and never imagined, not even in her wildest dreams…

‘Why doesn’t the Queen do something?’ screamed the headline in the Daily Blart.

Liz was stunned.

“Bleedin’ Norah,” she thought. “A chance for one to do something useful for a change!”

Calling for her wardrobemaid who assisted her into her crown, jodphurs, thigh length riding boots (with spurs) and the flak jacket with ‘Koo’ embriodered on the back that Andrew had left at the Palace after the Falklands, she immediately phoned round, and 20 minutes later a small but perfectly formed convoy of tanks, armoured troop carriers and any of Britain’s finest who weren’t engaged in shooting goats in Afghanistan was assembled in the Mall.

She climbed onto the leading Chieftain tank and addressed her troops.

“Right, you men. We need to sort out those cunts in Westminster. We want no-one escaping. Round them all up and teapot them (she thought that was the right term) in Parliament Square. We mean to kick bottom and chew fruit pastilles, and we’re fresh out of pastilles!”

So saying, she hit the top of the tank with her riding crop and the convoy moved off.

“One wonders if one can get away with breaking a cap in a few bums, just as a warning?” she mused, toying with Daddy’s old revolver, freshly cleaned and fully loaded with hollow-point bullets.

This would be even more fun than wringing a grouse’s neck.

It was going to a good day after all…

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