Friends, Subjects and Fellow Countrymen:
As the alternative Head of State for this great island, may I wish you all a most wondrous Christmas and a felicitous New Year. We are nearing the end of a topsy-turvy year – an annus promiscuus – that has been both the best of times and the worst of times. As a nation, we have collectively experienced the full gamut of human emotions over the past 12 months, taking in the extremest extremes imaginable and everything in between. I too, as proud Queen of this country, have experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows life has to offer. The highs? Boshing a couple of pink diamonds on Halloween followed by a bucket of rum, a fistful of jeeftos and two dozen poodles’ legs of Tony. The lows? Waking up the next morning. Nationally, this pattern has been repeated, with 2010 seeing disparities and incongruities that have hitherto never been witnessed, and which may never be seen again. Contrasts in weather, in political ideals, in social – and in Facebook – status.
For example, who would you estimate to be among the greatest heroes and villains of our time? The answer, of course, is that they are one and the same person. Raoul Moat? Wife-beating, cop-killing, psychotic, jilted madman. Or courageous, cop-killing, postmodern messianic anti-hero. It all depends on your outlook on life. And specifically on whether your outlook on life has been tainted... by meeting the police in real life.
And then there’s Tommy Sheridan - bare-assed liar or unflinching mouth (and cod)-piece of the proletariat? Maybe neither, maybe both. Maybe everything and nothing. When is a lie not a lie? When it’s told in court, in which case it’s counterargument. Or possibly perjury, depending on how many members of the establishment you’ve pissed off whilst uttering said truths/half-truths/untruths.
Depending on whether you see the glass as half-full or half-empty, the erection as half-up or half-down, will determine how you assess this year. It’s clearly been an eventful one for ex-con lefties with a penchant for piecing dirties whilst fucking off the government. No, I’m not still talking about Tommy - I’m talking about Julian. Un-American, terrorist-assisting rapist or subversive whistleblower? Once again, the jury are split, leaned on, nobbled and tampered with. Then there’s this season’s coolest, most stylish attire to be seen out in, not to be confused with this season’s uncoolest, most unstylish attire to be seen dead in - Hunter welly boots. Even Tommy Sheridan would draw the line at fucking a girl wearing a pair of those.
We truly live in a polarised and skewed society. I mean, some of my best friends believe it is acceptable to throat-fuck a girl until she spews into her own arse-hole whilst forcing me to film the ensuing carnage. Some of my more distant friends think this a misogynistic and degrading way to treat a woman. These people make me sick. Which ones? All of them of course. That’s why we’re friends. It’s hard to witness such scenes at the best of times, but virtually impossible when you’re trying to hold a video camera steady while wanking furiously. We’re a nation who will shit, weep and spew cum, blood and puke from every orifice, then dress it up in euphemistic terms such as ‘making love’ or ‘visiting the restroom’. Then we’ll smoke a fag, chill for 20 and do it all over again. What is wrong with this country? Absolutely nothing, which is why I am so proud to be its monarch.
This Christmas, I have eschewed the comforts of Buckingham Palace in order to deliver this address from Aberdeen’s Yangtze River restaurant. While Chinese - and occasionally Scottish - families make some din over their din sum, I sip my Tsingtao and scribble thoughts on the back of a sheet of crumpled legal correspondence. I wouldn’t want it any other way though; it’s Christmas with the one I love - me. No seasonal address would be complete of course without sparing a thought for those less fortunate than ourselves. My heart goes out to all the kids currently holed up in Austrian cellars and dungeons and destined to remain undiscovered for another 20 years. They can only dream of what a white Christmas looks like. On the plus side, those Hunter wellies their fathers/captors have bought them will be worth a fortune in 2030 when they’re still in mint condition. Spare a thought also for Madeleine McCann - I meant to take her out for a walk this morning, but I was so stoned I couldn’t remember the combination to her cage. Sorry Maddie - maybe next year.
Before I leave you to enjoy the rest of your festivities, I would like to finish this address on a positive note however. Amidst all the doom and gloom, there are many reasons to be optimistic looking ahead to 2011. Many Christmases ago, on this very weblog (set to celebrate its tenth anniversary next year incidentally), I noted that the strange time between Christmas and New Year is a bit like the scrotum - nothing really happens there, but there’s plenty of excitement on either side. As we prepare to move from the balls to the scrotum (or possibly the arse-hole to the scrotum, depending on how bad your Christmas was), it’s time to reflect on what lies ahead, not what’s in between. Like many of you, I am about to change lanes by embarking on a journey into the unknown - in my case leaving Aberdeen to seek out new adventures and foreswear working for the man for working for this man. The last time I was self-employed, I sold drugs. This time, I’m gonna attempt to make it as a writer. And if that doesn’t work out, well, there’s always Plan B...
What does my future hold? I don’t know, though whenever asked this question, I always preface it with these five words: ‘If I’m not in prison...’. No one in this country is above the law. Not even the Queen herself. Which is why, were I to try and kill myself, I could be charged with attempted regicide and suicide. Sadly I don’t make the laws in this country - I just get wheeled out once a year to read them off a script, before retreating to my chambers to play with the corgis and roll a fat banger. There are some who would say that this country - just like the remains of my Christmas dinner - is going to the canines. Nonsense, I say. This is still the only nation in the world where anything is possible, and every underdog has its day. Believe me when I say that all of you, no matter what your circumstances may be, can achieve anything you want to provided you work hard, follow your dreams and don’t give up hope. And failing that, you can always audition for next year’s X-Factor. In this great island of contradictions and juxtapositions, there are some who believe that the current Christmas number one is the epitome of great music. There are others who believe that those responsible for it should be taken outside, shot in the head and then fucked in the ass. To which I can say only this: where’s Raoul Moat and Tommy Sheridan when you need them? Where are your heroes and villains now?
Merry Christmas, my people. Merry Fucking Christmas.
As the alternative Head of State for this great island, may I wish you all a most wondrous Christmas and a felicitous New Year. We are nearing the end of a topsy-turvy year – an annus promiscuus – that has been both the best of times and the worst of times. As a nation, we have collectively experienced the full gamut of human emotions over the past 12 months, taking in the extremest extremes imaginable and everything in between. I too, as proud Queen of this country, have experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows life has to offer. The highs? Boshing a couple of pink diamonds on Halloween followed by a bucket of rum, a fistful of jeeftos and two dozen poodles’ legs of Tony. The lows? Waking up the next morning. Nationally, this pattern has been repeated, with 2010 seeing disparities and incongruities that have hitherto never been witnessed, and which may never be seen again. Contrasts in weather, in political ideals, in social – and in Facebook – status.
For example, who would you estimate to be among the greatest heroes and villains of our time? The answer, of course, is that they are one and the same person. Raoul Moat? Wife-beating, cop-killing, psychotic, jilted madman. Or courageous, cop-killing, postmodern messianic anti-hero. It all depends on your outlook on life. And specifically on whether your outlook on life has been tainted... by meeting the police in real life.
And then there’s Tommy Sheridan - bare-assed liar or unflinching mouth (and cod)-piece of the proletariat? Maybe neither, maybe both. Maybe everything and nothing. When is a lie not a lie? When it’s told in court, in which case it’s counterargument. Or possibly perjury, depending on how many members of the establishment you’ve pissed off whilst uttering said truths/half-truths/untruths.
Depending on whether you see the glass as half-full or half-empty, the erection as half-up or half-down, will determine how you assess this year. It’s clearly been an eventful one for ex-con lefties with a penchant for piecing dirties whilst fucking off the government. No, I’m not still talking about Tommy - I’m talking about Julian. Un-American, terrorist-assisting rapist or subversive whistleblower? Once again, the jury are split, leaned on, nobbled and tampered with. Then there’s this season’s coolest, most stylish attire to be seen out in, not to be confused with this season’s uncoolest, most unstylish attire to be seen dead in - Hunter welly boots. Even Tommy Sheridan would draw the line at fucking a girl wearing a pair of those.
We truly live in a polarised and skewed society. I mean, some of my best friends believe it is acceptable to throat-fuck a girl until she spews into her own arse-hole whilst forcing me to film the ensuing carnage. Some of my more distant friends think this a misogynistic and degrading way to treat a woman. These people make me sick. Which ones? All of them of course. That’s why we’re friends. It’s hard to witness such scenes at the best of times, but virtually impossible when you’re trying to hold a video camera steady while wanking furiously. We’re a nation who will shit, weep and spew cum, blood and puke from every orifice, then dress it up in euphemistic terms such as ‘making love’ or ‘visiting the restroom’. Then we’ll smoke a fag, chill for 20 and do it all over again. What is wrong with this country? Absolutely nothing, which is why I am so proud to be its monarch.
This Christmas, I have eschewed the comforts of Buckingham Palace in order to deliver this address from Aberdeen’s Yangtze River restaurant. While Chinese - and occasionally Scottish - families make some din over their din sum, I sip my Tsingtao and scribble thoughts on the back of a sheet of crumpled legal correspondence. I wouldn’t want it any other way though; it’s Christmas with the one I love - me. No seasonal address would be complete of course without sparing a thought for those less fortunate than ourselves. My heart goes out to all the kids currently holed up in Austrian cellars and dungeons and destined to remain undiscovered for another 20 years. They can only dream of what a white Christmas looks like. On the plus side, those Hunter wellies their fathers/captors have bought them will be worth a fortune in 2030 when they’re still in mint condition. Spare a thought also for Madeleine McCann - I meant to take her out for a walk this morning, but I was so stoned I couldn’t remember the combination to her cage. Sorry Maddie - maybe next year.
Before I leave you to enjoy the rest of your festivities, I would like to finish this address on a positive note however. Amidst all the doom and gloom, there are many reasons to be optimistic looking ahead to 2011. Many Christmases ago, on this very weblog (set to celebrate its tenth anniversary next year incidentally), I noted that the strange time between Christmas and New Year is a bit like the scrotum - nothing really happens there, but there’s plenty of excitement on either side. As we prepare to move from the balls to the scrotum (or possibly the arse-hole to the scrotum, depending on how bad your Christmas was), it’s time to reflect on what lies ahead, not what’s in between. Like many of you, I am about to change lanes by embarking on a journey into the unknown - in my case leaving Aberdeen to seek out new adventures and foreswear working for the man for working for this man. The last time I was self-employed, I sold drugs. This time, I’m gonna attempt to make it as a writer. And if that doesn’t work out, well, there’s always Plan B...
What does my future hold? I don’t know, though whenever asked this question, I always preface it with these five words: ‘If I’m not in prison...’. No one in this country is above the law. Not even the Queen herself. Which is why, were I to try and kill myself, I could be charged with attempted regicide and suicide. Sadly I don’t make the laws in this country - I just get wheeled out once a year to read them off a script, before retreating to my chambers to play with the corgis and roll a fat banger. There are some who would say that this country - just like the remains of my Christmas dinner - is going to the canines. Nonsense, I say. This is still the only nation in the world where anything is possible, and every underdog has its day. Believe me when I say that all of you, no matter what your circumstances may be, can achieve anything you want to provided you work hard, follow your dreams and don’t give up hope. And failing that, you can always audition for next year’s X-Factor. In this great island of contradictions and juxtapositions, there are some who believe that the current Christmas number one is the epitome of great music. There are others who believe that those responsible for it should be taken outside, shot in the head and then fucked in the ass. To which I can say only this: where’s Raoul Moat and Tommy Sheridan when you need them? Where are your heroes and villains now?
Merry Christmas, my people. Merry Fucking Christmas.
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