Prince Andrew is a shoe-in for the Coronation balcony presentation. he is after all… A man of influence.

We’re back to the saga which has no end.

No, not the silly criminal proceedings against Donald Trump nor the catastrophe of who gets to stand on the balcony at the upcoming Royal Coronation. Though we do have it on good authority that although they are not invited to the coronation itself, Prince Harry, and his royal consort princess Migraine will be invited to the Coronation after party. As described by lady Fergie of cashback; ‘the after party is heaps better than the silly coronation, cos that’s where we royal can let loose, treat the public with utter disdain, and rave on into the wee small hours in our national costume. Which is invariably brown or black with Hakenkreuz on the left arm. And there’ll be tons of Coke, Fanta, and Whizz Fizz, and we’ll party into the long weekend playing pass the parcel, flog the blackamoor and ‘who’s a bigger chinless wonder’. Andy always wins on that category, but Charles, the man who would be King, is in training to beat him to the punch’.  Oh, her royal something or other added, ‘there will be punch. I’ll be making it, Pimm’s no 5, Copious amounts of vodka paid for form our friends in Russia, and a Punch and Judy show live featuring Rishi and Boris in a tag team match in a cage’.

 These two will also have a handle on affairs of state. Though we at pcbycp can’t think of one.

What can we say?  We know out readership are convulsed with anticipation of the royal event of the Millennia. But a starker reality remains, that will not go unless it can be determined as to what fate lies before out trio and to what effect the aegis of Julian and Benny-Boy may change their predestiny.

Predestiny, Predisposition, Preamble, the Voice. Whatever happens it’ll be bigger than AUK-WARD if we have an atom of imagination left after the Voice referendum.

We return to our saga.

Stuart Robert MP, has been assured in the old fashioned way that a front row seat is his for the taking at Westminster. ‘Mates Rates’!

It’s hoped the; ‘Three wise men” will get an invite.

There was no time to duck, to crouch or even find a niche from which to protect us from the falling debris. Trained to send an RPG straight into the innards of the helicopter, Benny Boy wasted no time, and as the projectile found its mark, we just braced ourselves for the inevitable.  And the inevitable was not a long time in coming. With a crescendo of fire and light, the grenade ripped into the helicopter’s innards and what was once a formidable technological masterpiece of aeronautical engineering came crashing down in an explosion of flame and thunder. The blades smashing against the wall of the crevasse, and the fuselage, rent and ruptured where the grenade had made its mark. WE cowered knowing that when it hit solid ground we’d be barely inches from the conflagration and in spite of the thunderous crescendo of impact we could see Julian, smiling wryly. It proved a point no matter how far from the circumstance, Julian, the bad boy of Wikileaks was always relishing the moment. For when chaos reigned, he would rise above it, and turn it via the alchemy of his personality into something much worse. For all of us, it indicated his mastery of the dark arts and his ability to turn any catastrophe into a footnote devoted to himself. We admired his obdurate stoicism, his pluck and his abject level of self-indulgence. It was Trumpian, and worse.

some eminent individuals have not RSVP’d

‘Stand back’! Ces cried, and although the sentiment was entirely gratuitous, we were so absorbed in the fireball of busted up helicopter as it descended towards us. The busted-up rotors a Catherine wheel of fire, and the Plexiglass nose revealing a pilot stuck in an attitude of sheer horror. Determined to ride, whatever the consequence the flaming whirly-bird to the end.

With a terrific impact of torn steel, and duralinium it crashed directly in front of us, with such impact we all felt winded by the concussion. Picking ourselves up we noticed the conflagration had extinguished itself with the force of impact the crumpled wreck before us revealed one singular thing. Written onto the boom, now more crumpled than an AUK WARD TREAY Periscope, were the words ‘Hancock Prospecting’, and incredibly, in the busted-up piece of wreckage we could see movement. There as something inside that aircraft that still lived. And with compassion a forethought we all rushed to a man to free whoever it was that many be trapped inside. Friend or foe, compassion and humanity held us in a sacred bond of doing the right thing.

Will Princeess Migraine show up? Who cares?

‘Here’, Ces pointed, the door its half open, form inside we could hear a voice, ‘Help me, help me’! That’s it’! Benny cried, and through the adroit force of courageous impulse that had won him a VC on the field of glory, he was at the crumpled cockpit in a flash. Deploying his Swiss army knife he rattled through all the combinations before he pulled out the tin opener.  It was astounding to watch Benny at work. As a VC winner he was completely absorbed in the task at hand, and it was pure professionalism at work. Furiously he tore back at the exoskeletal carapace unto the bare metal ribs gave us a glimpse of what lay inside. A crumpled mass of humanity in which a figure, indecipherable in the mist and smoke was attempting to stand up, ‘Hold on mate’, Terry cried, and Benny leaned into the cockpit, grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled the pilot out,

The whole Coronation shebang is paid for by Saudi inc.

WE were consumed with awe.

Only Benny Boy, VC Winner could perform such a task. The Pilot was reverentially laid down.

We carefully wiped his face, covered in oil, soot and grease.  Terry proffering him another Camel, leaped forward and said the soothing words, ‘you’ll be right mate’, and helped him take his first two drags before the pilot regained full consciousness and his eyes blinked. Just as Terry said; ‘hey mate would yer like another fag’?  A horrible realisation dawned. This was worse than any of Gina’s stooges. This was stooge- ism itself. This was lick-spittle central.  This was arse-wipe city. For upon regaining consciousness and beaming up at us with all the confidence that only pure stupidity can bring we realised who the survivor was.  None other than Brenny Nelson, the supremo of the AWM. And we knew that whatever happened his henchmen Angus, Gina, and Kerrie were not far behind, ‘

Fergie is anticipated to make a splash.

And just as we made this tragic realisation, the tom toms, dormant this past half hour, renewed their insidious beat. We were still on the run, from savages determined via Sophies folie de grandeur to have us eaten or by Brenny and his cohorts to be stuffed, set and displayed as mere chattel to the God-head of ANZACKERY.

Will this be the end? Or just another prelude to the end of the beginning? Or the bit after the start in our in the next compelling episode? ‘If you think too much you’re fucked’, or ‘three sheets to the windvane, and it’s blowing from every angle’.