Night Of Torment

I think it's been quite interesting, this hung parliament business. I'm not going to go into all the politics of the situation - I've done all that (we've all done all that) in the last twenty-four hours, and there are many points of view to consider; some valid and some just plain hysterical. Even some have been just plain bigoted, of course.

But last night's antics (Tuesday 11th May), whilst being hugely fascinating, had me wondering about the poor old Queen. Just imagine, she had her evening ruined by all the comings and goings of those two selfish boys Brown & Cameron. Picture if you will, a typical Tuesday evening at Buck House - we don't know exactly what goes on there, but it could be something like this:

Scene One: Interior of Her Majesty's bedroom. Her Majesty, dressed in full leathers and a spiked dog collar, is just finishing tying Philip, naked and spread-eagled, to the bed. The doorbell rings.

HM: Who the blazes is that at this time of night?
Butler (outside the door): Your Majesty - I'm afraid Gordon Brown is downstairs. He says it's very urgent.
HM: (wearily) Oh, that old fool? What the fuck does he want? (sighs). Okay, tell him I'll be down in a bit.

HM quickly shimmies out of her leathers and dons a posh frock, hastily clipping on a diamond brooch worth more than the gross assets of Manchester United FC. She rushes out of the room, not forgetting to place a ball-gag in Philip's mouth first.

Scene Two: State room at Buck House. HM shakes Gordon Brown's hand.

GB: Your Majesty, it is with regret that I have come to tender my resignation as your Prime Minister. I know how disappointed you must be to -
HM: (interrupting) Yes, yes, whatever. Nice knowing you Gordy. Now, good night. And close the door on your way out please.

Scene Three: Interior of Buck House. HM races back up the stairs, enters the bedroom and breathless, throws off the frock and re-dons the leathers and dog-collar.

HM: (to a struggling Philip) Now, bitch. I've just had to deal with that old toadie Brown. This has put me in a mean, mean mood. And you, my little prince-dog, are going to suffer for that.

HM picks up evil-looking whip and approaches the bed. The doorbell rings again.

HM: WTF? Who the hell can it be this time?
Butler (outside the door): Your Majesty - I'm afraid David Cameron is downstairs. He says it's very urgent.
HM: (wearily) Oh, that stuck-up little fart? (sighs). Okay, tell him I'll be down in a bit.

HM quickly shimmies out of leathers again and dons a different posh frock, hastily hanging a pearl necklace worth more than the gross assets of Lord Sugar around her neck. She rushes out of the room, not forgetting to apply some vicious-looking clamps to Philip's nipples first.

Scene Four: State room at Buck House. HM shakes David Cameron's hand.

DC: Your Majesty, I have come to seek your permission to form a new government.
HM: Well you can't, so there! You're like a commuter train - you don't have enough seats. Ha ha!
DC: (somewhat ruffled) Well, apart from the fact that you've probably never even been on a commuter train Ma'am, I can tell you that I have that nice Mr Clegg's full support for this.
HM: What? Do you think you two can actually handle it? Really? Oh well, whatever. I always suspected that you two were a pair of bum-boys anyway. Get on with it then, but don't go thinking you can bring him along for the weekly audience with me. One face (that's yours) that resembles a slapped arse is enough, so I don't need two of them, thank you very much. Good night.

Scene Five: Interior of Buck House. HM races back up the stairs, enters the bedroom and breathless, throws off the frock and re-dons the leathers and dog-collar.

HM: (to an even more struggling Philip) Now, slut. I've just had to deal with that chinless wonder Cameron. This has put me in an even meaner mood. And for you, my little Greek slave-boi, that is some very bad news indeed....

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I mean, it's just not fair, is it? Can't that poor woman have a night of simple fun when she wants it? Those selfish politicians are just plain thoughtless, that's what they are.