There is a wedding sometime this month. Somebody important (I hope that was the word) is to marry a cracking bit of stuff and bankrupt her father at the same time. He's a Prince (I'm sure I heard that right) and his wedding march is to be a dry run for Mrs. Queen's funeral.
That gave me pause. If I was trying to think of the very best way to put a total damper on what should be someone's happiest day, it would probably be this: 'Hey, this is the route we'll take when we drag Granny's coffin to her final dumping ground. Ooo, look. Blackbirds. They are supposed to rip the souls of the dead to shreds, you know. Isn't that interesting? '
Once more, the Government trumps my attempts at being heartless and cruel. At this rate I might as well give up and start being nice to people [shudder].
I'm not invited to the wedding but the Cameroid is. If I was invited I'd hire some seriously fancy duds for the day. I mean, the wedding of a future Mr. King who isn't as bonkers as his father? Heck, that is worth making an effort for.
The Cameroid apparently plans to turn up in his gardening clothes to 'show solidarity wiv da kids, innit?'.
I hope the newshounds are recording every word Prince Philip says on that day. He is going to come out with some absolute corkers and the Cameroid will never, ever live it down.
Serves him right, the Tefal-headed twat. Although he'll probably U-turn on this. He has on everything else.
Now if only he can persuade Nick Clegg to dress up as Nick O'Teen, it would be worth my while to watch the show.