I Just Can’t Wait To Be King

Divine proclamations are funny old things.  It seems that you can wait your whole life for one, purposely standing next to burning bushes and atop biblical mountainsides.  However, they have a tendency to pop when you least expect them.  In this case, it occurred at a family barbeque.

There I was, grilling meat like an absolute champion.  I remember it well because I was wearing my favourite grilling apron, which says “kiss the cook” on the front, but one of my damn kids scratched off part of the second o to look like a c.  Anyway, I had just necked my 13^th beer of the day, then picked up my spatula to flip another burger on the grill.  As I held my spatula aloft, it glinted in the sunlight as if to say “you have been chosen for greatness”.

It would be an understatement to say that I was excited.  I immediately relived my bladder at this revelation.  I held the cooking utensil higher to try and invoke further insight.  Listening intently, I heard an echoing voice in my head say the words that I have been waiting to hear since the day I was born; “you are now king of the entire universe!”

The Scepter Of Fate

About damn time!  I could finally ditch this whole stupid family, quit my job, and live a life of luxury.  I would lie around all day on a velvet pillow and have a giant Persian cat stroke me.  I would bathe in asp milk.  Who am I to stand in the way of destiny?

I turned to leave and almost tripped over my stupid kids, who were holding a cardboard tube up to ear and speaking into it for some idiotic reason.  They soon stopped giggling when I barged past them shouting “Daddy’s gonna rule the world, bitches!”, smashed my way through the garden gate (because a king doesn’t open any gates for himself), and ran off down the street towards Parliament.

It was during the middle of Prime Minister’s questions that I managed to infiltrate the House of Commons.  I pushed past David Cameron, interrupting his speech about why he’s such a moon-faced dick or something, wrestled my way past two security guards, and deposed the speaker from his seat.  Now sat on my new throne, I waved my spatula in the air as I began to lay down my own commandments.  I demanded that Nick Clegg start creating my very own Magna Carta, which, having smelled the smell of real power, he willingly fell down on his knees and obliged.

“Alright!  Rule number 1, anyone who ever insulted me is to be dangled slowly into a firey pit of scorpions.  Rule number 2, build me a firey pit of scorpions!”

It was at this point that a rubber bullet pierced my shoulder.  The force of the impact made the spatula (which I had just christened the Scepter Of Fate) fly out of my hand, bounce down the steps, and into the hand of Ed Miliband.  He held it up for a few seconds, then felt an overwhelming sense of responsibility and got scared, flinging it over towards Cameron.  He scooped it up and his face began flapping like a loosely-fitted condom as he started cackling like a madman. 

Meanwhile, I was bleeding all over the place.  My reign was rather short, but terrifying and grand in scope.  As I sit in prison awaiting trial, I’m trying to understand what went wrong.  Next time I hear a disembodied voice from a divine spirit after drinking beer all day in the hot sun, I’m strongly considering not taking their career advice.