The Royal Wedding— a satirical short story

The Royal Wedding

In another dimension where fairness & justice is 5% above our own dimension’s…

Harry complains he doesn’t look good in red, it’s his hair. Moreover, why does he have to wear William’s same Irish Guard’s Mounted Officer’s uniform, he looks like a proper twat, why couldn’t he just go to Saville Row, buy some trad-swallowtails? The powder blue sash makes him look like a Miss(-placed) Universe contestant. William is 5 centimeters taller than Harry, so the uniform is too long in the arms & legs & makes it look like he has man-breasts, which is an abuse of the reality of his rower’s physique. William tells him to stop being a whingey tosser. Grandmother is cutting corners, gone stingy in her crepuscular years & is unhappy (& probably jealous) he is marrying a movie star who snogged Russel Brand (who Queen Lizzie thinks is well fit).

William got a call saying MI5 got a tip that a group of men from the Windrush generation (now homeless, jobless & hungry for revenge) are planning on kidnapping the bride & replacing the princess-to-be with their own Windrush beauty who, veiled, would surprise the moody prince, (already peeved with his baggy Mounted uniform) with a wet kiss on the smacker. Too cartoonish to be probable, Harry screeches, off with their heads anyway, he thinks he’s well funny, but he ain’t. He’s just another royal wanker.

William’s hired a clapped-out 2 door, mint coloured Ford Cortina to drive Harry & his manacled bride to the church. It’s got mother-of-pearl interior, & a CD player so he can listen to hip hop on the way to church— it’s well flash, says William to try to cheer his brother; the whole things been done up to the bolllox by a top pro off TV.

Harry thinks tit for tat, but William reminds him that Queen Lizzie needs her golden chariots pulled by half score of stallions &… the jealousy, nothing to be done of the jealousy or her tight as fuck fist. It isn’t William’s fault he got a better wedding than his loser brother. Cuz I look like dad probably, he explains.

Harry blubbers, he has a snotty nose. Wishes he had a proper job now. Wishes so many things. Wishes his brother would just shave his head. Wishes his dad wasn’t an enormous twat. Wishes he had a bigger thingy. Wishes he could come out…as an atheist. Wishes he could wear a toga whenever he want to. Wishes he was naked on the front page of GQ with his middle finger up. Wishes…wishes…Wishes his family was better.

At least he’ll finally get laid on his honeymoon.
Yes! He pumps his fist into the air. Think about the week in Benidorm with his young wife, ***, all-inclusive hotel, 15 minute walk from the beach, lots of Jägermeister, hot-tub Jägermeister, no one to tell him he shouldn’t smoke Churchill cigars like a boss, English Breakfast every morning, milky tea & hand-jobs, O he does love hand-jobs. & he’ll get to touch her boobs, her fleshy puddings he calls them. He’s only imagined up to now, but he’ll get to touch. He ejaculates prematurely.

Makes a note to self: ask dad for Viagra. No. Better yet, just steal it, he knows where it is hidden anyway, top drawer, under the signed photo of Muammar Gaddafi, Dad’s favorite dictator, cuz he never ‘ad WMDs really, he was a pretty nice guy, made the best Waldorf salad dad ever had, made his own mayonnaise & had a walnut grove.
Dad said, him & Muammar would go out into the groves wearing Evel Knieval style crash helmets (provided by Muammar) & run as fast as they could (making Spitfire noises by vibrating their lips), head first into the walnut trees, & with baskets open-side up, well Sellotaped to their backs, collected the walnuts that rained down from their thuds. After frolics & snafu, lots of hugging, Muammar would have his bodyguards count them. Whoever won would get to pick a DVD from Muammar’s collection to watch after dinner.

In the crèche Prince Louis & George are picking each other’s nose & feeding it to their dog Lego Buster. They’ve got hold of an old copy of Penthouse (probably Camila’s, a hand-me-down from Prince Andrew) & are drawing devil beards on all the models & bullseyes round their mammaries. Lego Buster smells like dead feet blocking up a Midland toilet & has no teeth, as Queen Lizzie has an irrational fear of points.
They are being encouraged by Prince Albert, who is wearing a silk kimono (probably Queen Lizzie’s), on which he has glued (with wood adhesive), homemade epaulettes, the heads of 100 old toothbrushes, sawn off & attached to the shoulders of the kimono—I am sure Queen Lizzie was infuriated on discovering this, in fact she was & made him sleep in the kennels for a fortnight. He smokes a Korean pipe for staged-effect, does unexpected Great-Grandad farts which startle the 2 little boys & sound oddly like he is sighing & snoring at the same time.

Camila is listening to Stalin’s speeches on her iPod & gesticulating like a cross between Thatcher & somebody trying to shoo away a hungry wolf—rapt in Stalin’s didacticism she repeats to herself I am mad, bad & dangerous to know.

Charles is polishing his feet, trying to brush up on his Latin by reading Paracelsus & playing with a children’s chemistry set trying to transmute plastic into the Lapis Philosophorum & just causing a dreadful, stinking mess.

Meg’s electronic tag has an eight digit code & Wikileaks just got wind of it. It’s all over the Internet. Someone is scoundrel enough to go key it in. But where is Meg? In the Tower? In a dungeon? Mustn’t reveal this intrepid soul’s identity, they will have Meg free & back making shit films in the time it takes to say gimme a visa. They’re satellite-on-it. They’ll emancipate the poor darling from the evil royals.

Turns out the Secret Service have her in the back of an unmarked car. Our secret hero, cape-less, cap-less & O so brave— did I mention that? Smashes the window with a pillowed elbow, keys in the code from memory—no traces. Meg crawls through the broken window, gashes her secondhand dress & scatters with our secret hero, twists her ankle, but no problem, she yogas it back into road worthiness. No one saw a thing.

Wedding time. Where’s the bride? Harry in his baggy, brother-borrowed Irish Guard’s Mounted Officer’s uniform is getting nervous, biting the nails of his feet, took his boots off, more comfy. Queen Lizzie is losing her shit, sipping from a hip flask full of Horlicks & rum, for balance.

The tabloids have their cameras aimed at Harry’s berry blushed face, waiting for the 1st tear to rock n’ roll out his puffing eyes, he’s holding them boyo-tears back.

2 hours… 3… 4…5… Sounds of snoring. Merkel has read half of War & Peace. Macron is making daisy chains while Internet banking. Tony Blair & Boris Johnson, shirtless, arm wrestle & argue about Brexit & the possibility of South American trade agreements. Michael Gove is sticking decals on the pews, which state how Climate Change is Really here! Theresa May is regurgitating eggs benedict to feed the sparrowlings nesting in her hair & reading a book on politics 101. Jeremy Corbyn keeps telling everyone he can’t believe he even got an invitation. George Clooney is hitting on the brides maids. Elton John keeps combing his toupee & playing an imaginary piano. Ed Sheeran is trying not to cry in solidarity with his fellow ginger brother-in-hair-tone & wondering if he’ll ever get a girlfriend.
A group of homeless folk can be heard giggling outside & chanting, wedding cake & beer.

The vicar’s spiritual itch shows. He takes selfies with the altar boys. He’s over-eager to show-boat his marrying talents for ITV.

The secret service have all handed in their notice, shamefaced & now drinking cheeky Vimtos in a pub across the road—we had a good spell, they tell themselves. One drinks cyanide but somehow is unscathed, probably due to surviving that abortion his mom had.

Kate Middleton is trying to stop her son’s from setting the vicars alb on fire with cooking matches. Albert is reading Alesiter Crowley’s Book of Lies to confused teenagers, with Shine on you Crazy Diamond full volume crackling out his iPhone 4, stopping his reading when the line shiiiiinnnee on youuu craaaaazy diiiiamond comes round, altering it to his own Shinnnnneee on ya craaaaayyyyzzzeeeee baaasssstaaarrrddd— trying to inspire a revolution of consciousness among the teens, who just look mixed up & ashamed when Beelzebub doesn’t appear.

All the world leaders are choreographing a mass walkout to a decent Chinese buffet round the corner, they are getting hungry & fidgety & someone already ate all the tulips & lilies, or stole them as souvenirs— the Spice Girls look suspicious, an orange powder smothered round their acapella gobs.

The crowd snickers so the royal family can hear. Harry is blinded by camera flash as his first tear rock n’ rolls. Then he blubbers. Then he breaks down thumping his fist on the baptismal font. Screaming at 10 decibels, why God! why me! O take this beating heart of mine & fit it in a Ford Capri.

His sobbing is broadcast on big screens for all of London to see, nationalists sob into their Union Jack capes, flags, hats, whatever. But it can’t soak up the uncontrollable typhoon of sadness. People cry so much it causes tsunami waters, whole demographics washed away in the tide of their own salty death-wash. Millions dead. Millions & millions.
Should of stayed at home. Should have fed the homeless. Shouldn’t give a shit.

Wikileaks tipped off the homeless & the innocent. They made an ark out of inner tubes, rubber boats, match sticks, pigeon bones & little Union Jack flags all plugged up with chewed-up tobacco & magpie blood. Been making it for months. They sail off to new pastures. Pockets full of seeds & salmon sandwiches.

William pats Harry on the back & says don’t worry sport, we’ll get you another one, how about we put your dating profile back up on OK Cupid when we get home? I’ll let you use the Internet for an hour, alright, there, there. I’ll make you some cup-a-soup, your favourite, cream of chicken.

Meanwhile Meg is on the phone to Lucas Arts, or Disney (or whatever, what does she care) about a part in the next Star Wars film while drinking Guinness from the can.

The tabloids on Sunday: HARRY’S FARCIKLE BIG DAY IS A WASH OUT!

8 thoughts on “The Royal Wedding— a satirical short story

  1. This: “Harry complains he doesn’t look good in red, it’s his hair.” Is about as perfect as comic timing gets. I like the canter, especially as you wind down into true stream of consciousness, last bits spitting out in quick time. Excellent, considering it is done ‘off the cuff.’ A good amount of your Malurkey voice in there, as well.

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