The crowning glory! HRH King Charles keeps the seat warm for the next chinless wonder.

Julian, letting WIKILEAKS issue forth so that he may recieve eternal disdain from the Australian body politic.

As the serious count-down begins until we have officially crowned a new monarch, a new head of state, a new titular figure to out rank all titular twits who’ve assumed power thought theft, grift, assassination and brute force . This one comes to us via the divine right of birth. Noble born. As noble as a family of chinless-wonder Germanic princelings can ever get.  We count the days down.  Only six days till the crowning achievement. To stand anointed by a Christian God on the balcony of Buckingham Palace. 

And the susurrus around the palace, what will Migraine and her consort Harry do to disrupt the proceedings? Just their mere presence is enough to upset the whole shebang. Such is the power of the Twittersphere, digital media and stupidity on a scale unparalleled to turn farce into utter farce. Only Piers Morgan can achieve a more farcical level of farcicity,  (if there isn’t such a word , we don’t care)   just by opening his mouth. The royal slatherer, will be drooling and inchoate with kingly splendour, as collectively we bum-lick and forelock tug into the middle of the twenty first century. For that is the tradition ‘handed down to us’.

When once we used to celebrate the workers and the proletariat in May Day, now we celebrate the capacity to buy things ands enjoy slavish wage growth whilst the anointed ten percent gain obscene tax cuts. This is just one of the boons of being a bit-player in the glory of majesty, of pomp, and horrid and unremarkable.  Little people feeling every now and then superior. Such is the anointment of Windsor Inc. 

What will Prince Andrew wear at the COWONATION? A Tiara? A sword? A mace? A leak?

But what can we do? And how much do we know what really goes on? Only the inner circle and our three hapless anti-heroes Ces, Quent and Terry know that Windsor Inc is a vicious stop at nothing crime gang, hell bent on monetising the former colonies via graft corruption and their capacity to supply on demand the reliability of utter stupidity. With Gina and Angus up to their necks in gold for peerages and Sophie on the loose, in the New Guinea highlands they know that only by chance and a little luck they might escape. And thus live freely away from the machinations of the Royal Family and the cronies who are determined to snuff them out. 

We return to our saga. 

The little man who would be GRATE. Powering the mighty machinery of Anzackery Corp!

‘Hold on tight. But they’re slippery’! The sight of Ces swaying back on forth as he tried to get his hands firmly attached to the statues enormous nipples caused the more sensitive amongst our group to wince. Surprisingly Julian held on with utter determination and swinging his body to and fro heaved himself up with both hands onto the upper part of the enormous breasts. With a belaying pin stuck in the cleavage, he paid out the rope. And one by one, they gained the upper reaches. They could see the spears clattering at the feet of the statue some one hundred feet below them and realised that with just one more heave they’d be at the portal of the cave. And pausing just briefly, Benny Boy, the last to gain the ledge, hauled Brenny-boy Nelson as a crumpled sack of humanity upon his broad shoulders and pointed to the top. ‘Gain the crown, and it should be easy to leap into the portal. But’ , he cautioned; ‘Be careful. -‘Righto’! Quent enthused and with a grappling hook fashioned by vine and a crumpled spear he secured a hold on the Crown and beckoning the rest followed, leaving Benny boy Australia’s moist decorated soldier at the top of the breasts and the splayed body of Brenny Boy Nelson manager of the AWM lifeless as a wax  and papier mâché dummy. 

The natives had finally made it to the statue, clambering down the maw of the ancient crevasse and with their spears shaking and the indecipherable gibberish of savages they hallooed and hurrahed whilst their eyes, illuminated in the smouldering haze of the Rotodyne, staring revengefully at their fleeing prey. To make sure we watched Benny boy expertly unleash a few grenades and amid the terrific raw and flash, we watched him insouciantly pick up Brenny boy and follow us. It was heartening to have such a warrior, such an unstoppable force on our side. 

Slotted for a job in defence industries? Sadly, we are not joking.

Julian was the last to jump from the crown, and though sickly in face and body wracked by all those years in Bellmarsh, he seemed to be infused with a new vigour. With one short run-up he made the leap. Almost fell, and we grabbed him. The cave our only protection for the natives who by now were climbing the statue, their statue of Sophie their god head to avenge the insult of our iconoclastic retreat. 

‘This’ll fix em’, and from his rucksack Benny produced a brace of land mines, a long bundle of torpex, detonators, smoke bombs and a dozen bomblets gleaned from the war torn wastelands of Bakhmut. Without even looking at us, he commanded, ‘you lot go into the cave and I’ll sort this lot out’. We looked into the cave stygian darkness, whilst below us the natives, screaming and wahooing in their primitive zeal gained purchase around the totems mid riff. We stumbled forward. We had no choice, but the only one offered to us, it was simple just like Windsor inc, there was only one logic; ‘Kill or be crowned’. 

What will happen to our heroes, will the tunnel be their saviour?

Will the tunnel deliver them from evil, temptation and the omnipresent scourge of Sophie, Gina and the Windsors?

Find out in the next episode, 

‘A tiara in the dust’, or;

‘Rather be tasered than be hit by the Royal Mace’. 

Royal family demonstrating their Germanic lineage.