Friday 11 July 2014

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 13th 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.

14 comments:

  1. Nah, I'm sure this was just a dry run. Next time will go better. Never give up, that's what I always say.

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    1. I tried never giving up, but then lent came along and I had to give something up. I gave up never giving up. Next year I'm going to give up never letting you down, then I'll give up running round and deserting you.

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  2. You think you have problems I was already to get my clutches on the Holy Grail and my plan was undermined by the Knights Templar and the Popes. . . Now I have a large group of despondent Androids wandering about in the garden claiming I have ruined their life, I have explained they are just lumps of tin but it did not cheer them up.

    At least you are now King of your own Cell, well either that or the love toy of Eric the Knife . . . . . My advice is never trust a disembodied voice after 13 pints of divine spirit. I will send a file in a cake I have some empty ones in the filing cabinet I dont need.

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    1. Thanks for the sage advice Mr Rob. I don't know why Eric the Knife has such a bad reputation. Once he's stabbed you a few time, he calms down and goes straight to sleep.

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  3. Yeah, that's why I have no aspirations of ascending to the monarchy. I'd be content with just being the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. But you have to murder the current monarchy in order to take their place. This has been the accepted practice since humanity began.

    By the way, "his face began flapping like a loosely-fitted condom," is perfection. You are the Duke of Metaphors.

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    1. That seems like a demotion. Last week I was the Tzar of Similes

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  4. Can I have my rubber bullet back please?..... mwa-mwa-haha-MWA-HAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! #twwbm

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    1. Why, can't you afford another? If you want your bullets you'll have to pluck them out of my cold, dead body!

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  5. Did Nick ever finish that pit of scorpions? I wouldn't trust him with one. He seems pretty close to going postal because nobody loves him. Huh, that would be an effective way to get rid of the current parliament and ruling class. Just demean one of them so much he gets an itchy trigger finger.

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    1. Nick Clegg is such a non-entity I doubt he even feels anger. Still, it's worth a try isn't it?

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  6. Don't let this minor set back deter you from what is clearly your destiny! This is your time.

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    1. Thanks for your support. When I finally take over, I pledge to make you my Minister For Encouraging Me To Do Stupid Things.

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  7. The fact that you survived an encounter with a rubber bullet means you're destined for things far greater than ruling the British Empire. That's, like, some godly stuff right there.

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    1. Is a rubber bullet more prestigious than a regular bullet? Where do rubber nukes fit into the equation?

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