15 Things I’d Rather Do Than Watch the Royal Wedding

The populace being distracted from the actions of a terrible, war-mongering female prime minister by pomp and ceremony. Thank God we live in such drastically different times.

1) Eat a curry made from dead syphilitic rats, Gordon Brown’s pubic dandruff and Anne Widdecombe’s freshly heaved vomit

2) Become the public face of a nationwide campaign to raise money for Gary Glitter’s legal team

3) Get trapped in a lift with an angry Katie Hopkins for six days with Bhangra music playing in a constant loop

4) Collect all of my children’s bogies, compact them into the shape of a giant yellow medicine ball, and then eat it up like a giant Babybell

5) Get ‘Big Mo Sucks the Dick’ tattooed on my back and then go on a naked cycling tour of Iran

6) Have someone rub my skin off with a cheese-grater and then push me into a giant vat of warm tramps’ piss

7) Attend the next Old Firm game in the Rangers end, dressed as Gerry Adams

8) Resurrect Margaret Thatcher, and then watch her walk away without killing her

9) Spend a busy month attending six children’s funerals a day

10) Black up, and run through the London subway system with a rucksack on my back shouting ‘Where’s your God now?’

11) Breed a flock of tiny, genetically-modified Jamie Olivers and then invite them into my home, to care for them until my death, which I’m not allowed to do anything to hasten

12) Attempt to trim my toe-nails using a chainsaw while sitting on top of a washing-machine on spin-cycle that’s on the back of a lorry driving across a crocodile-infested minefield as angry basketball players throw nests of wasps at my head

13) Sit on the top-deck of an open-top bus with my hand masking-taped to disgraced producer Jonathan King’s engorged cock as we drive down a cobbled street for half a day

14) Smear my scrotum with tuna and have a hungry tiger lick my balls

15) Watch Mrs Brown’s Boys

Cunt of the Week (02 July 2012) by Euan Meikle

Greetings fellow citizens. When Jamie asked me to nominate a Cunt Of The Week, I had to think long and hard (two words not normally found in the same sentence as Jamie Andrew). This world has a plethora of ‘see you hen teas’ to choose from, names such as Jeremy Clarkson, George Osbourne and Pastor Fred Phelps all came to mind as being worthy of weekly cunthood. However, I decided not to waste time venting bile on such small fry and so have opted to line up her Majesty the Queen in my crosshairs (metaphorically speaking, of course, as no doubt MI5 are taking notes).

Firstly, I want to state that I don’t believe Elizabeth Windsor, an 84 year old granny, who no doubt loves her friends, family and corgis, is a particularly bad person. She’s certainly not up there with Hitler, Freddy Krueger or whoever came up with the Go Compare adverts. My beef is with this imaginary entity that centuries of tradition and ritual, pomp and circumstance have created: The Queen.

It gets my goat that in the 21st century a perfectly ordinary woman, with the standard number of heads, legs and genitals, is somehow perceived as superior to the rest of us purely because some of her very distant ancestors won a few battles. Since Tharg hit Zog over the head with a club in order to steal his woolly mammoth burger, humans have always tended towards hierarchies of some sort. However, in this day and age, surely our leaders ought to have to earn the power, respect and fancy hats that come with the position.

The weirdness of the whole concept is best summed up by taking a look at ‘God Save the Queen’ (the original, not the Sex Pistols’ song). I’m not even going to go into the offensive verses about ‘rebellious Scots to crush’, and ‘beating up Welshmen who look at you a bit funny.’

This song is essentially a request that God, who made the whole universe and all of time and space and reality, take time out from his busy schedule to take a personal interest in the health and well-being of this one, wee old lady. Later verses get even more surreal, imploring the almighty to rescue her from any potential assassins, and even interfere in the politics of rival nations. One can imagine God sitting on a cloud somewhere, thinking: ‘Well, I really ought to do something about cancer, and the whole Syria situation is getting a bit sketchy, but my top priority has to be showering my choicest gifts on Lizzy and confounding the knavish tricks of the French.’

Unfortunately it seems we’re going to be stuck with the royals for some time yet, barring them being outed as giant lizards from another planet. Just remember, as Johnny Rotten once sang: ‘those tourists are money.’

THIS WEEK’S GUEST WRITER: Euan Meikle was the first man in western Europe to successfully have full sexual intercourse with a musk ox. Ironically, given his hatred for the title, The Queen wanted to recognise this feat and give Euan a Knighthood for ‘Services to Extraordinary Acts of Beastiality.’ Euan now lives in Stirling, Scotland, with the musk ox, and their three children. He spends his time making the kind of music they play in Guantanamo Bay to get the terrorists to confess, and you can listen to it in all of its electronic glory, here:  http://soundcloud.com/yuan-mekong.

FOLLOW EUAN ON TWITTER: You can’t: he isn’t on Twitter, the technophobic slag.