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Being Prince Phillip
Brain Free Space: 0%
Virtual Memory: No
Favourite past-time: shooting orf his mouth!
Run Time: How long is a piece of string?
Family: Their all mad you know.
Wealth: Wife is on all the currency, but never seen the evidence.
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This year 2009 there have been more cuckoos nesting at the palace than ever before. They haven't alerted security nor have trespassed like a 'Father's For Justice' campaigner, but they're proof that Prince Phillip aged 88, has provided nesting facilities to birds, yes he has gone absolutely cuckoo over them. It is a sad time that the once stern, broad shouldered, straight forward talking Prince has warped this way, and has turned into an armchair Bill Oddie type who once took joy at blowing the blighters up with a gloating shrill of 'got the bleeder!' During the Christmas period, parts of a personal journal went missing from his sleeping quarters probably sneaked out by one of his cuckoos, it is deemed as being one of the biggest gaffs yet. Please note that extracts have been taken out of the journal, to give the public a clearer picture what it is like being Prince Phillip.
Extract from personal journal dated 10-11-08
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Woke up with an orfully dreadful pain on my right side, that being Liz. How the devil she does it in her sleep beggars belief. I've been married to the wooden mare for sixty odd years and I've never seen the strings. Liz smiles on a prompt only when asked, but booking is preferable. She looks at me as if she's just about to put down a corgi most of the time, looking disapprovingly, ashamed even. She twitters, no not with your internet tripe, but in a fashion no one has a fathomed out. Audio noise, but without meaning; whistling through her dentures, the dogs stand alert and cock-eared at her desk. Gord knows! No he doesn't, it's not Scottish. Liz believes that my earthed clotted ears full of cuckoo hairs can't pick-up her docile moronic tones. The hairs habiting in my ears have helped me out of many corners, alas not to her sleep talking at 3am in the morning, telling Mr Gordon Brown 'why don't you go on the front-line that is where a leader should be?'
Flatulence has taken over part of my nights so when Liz is sleep talking I'm able to let them off one by one, reminds me of a 15 minute gun-fire salute. Sometimes a far away trumpet plays a short verse, and it leaves a tear in my eye. I'm a sad sod.
Had my knees rubbed that went into the servants quarters by accident, pity really the palace aide stood up right like a shot, her dull exterior got more than she bargained for, as she was trying to search for an English exclamation to suite the purpose, quite hard really as her vocabulary consists of 10 words; three of them being 'yes, your majostee'. Young, ugly mare; couldn't even swap her for a goat. - I guess its due to the recession as the palace have been given orders to not employ anything of quality, nor would cause embarrassment to our monarchy, such as the slimy Paul Burrell who did far too much around the dormitory area, so it was told; wearing pink marigolds, the tart .
I live for those unaccustomed awkward moments that don't run like clock-work, all stiff and festering on staleness that is as bland as the daily cucumber sandwich, bread as hard as a sheep left overnight at minus 8 degrees, according to Charles. He talks to the sheep, probably about orgasmic farming; and all that tripe about genetic modification lettuces, he rabbits on more than that really famous band 'Chas and Dave'. Yes the gaffs I make are made to make light-heartedness live on through the anal retentive patterns of state visits. Though my aides tell me to calm down and respect traditions that are sprung on me from far off lands, there are only so many 'Flintstone attired' war dances you can take. - God save the Queen, not the ones in Soho.
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Liz did her normal parade of flirting with the camera today, still as a wall fitting with slight movements from her mouth and there was a glimmer of a smile for her public. The last time she did that to me it was the blitz, and it wasn't long until trophy ears made an appearance. Extra flatulence tonight no doubt, lets hope Liz does her normal sleep talking telling Brown to get a life and bog off back to Scotland, wherever that is. Liz again left my Christmas Day speech next to her peacock feathered quill, on the desk. Its all about delegation Lizzie, I say. She replies 'Lizzie likes being bizzie' and sighs at her desk, 'it is what one must do'. - Baffling, she says the same every b***** year anyway, her droll is getting slower over the years and most of the cronies watching are asleep anyway, after all that bird stuffing and dreadful plonk from Bulgaria the pilgrims love. Palace staff are enjoying themselves too much, we offered a 2 pence wage increase this year, in a recession, Liz is stark staring mad. What happened to half penny increases like in the 1960's? Peasants never had it so good. Spitting feathers one was.
That Scottish man, sent a telegram stating about palace waste dribble and global warming. I wish it would warm up, had to get a key to crank up the electric heater up, just for the commode. Charlie like is Mother chats for hours by himself, mainly to his spider plants, telling them to blow out more oxygen, he is like Mr Motivator as an eco warrior, makes no bleeding difference. I'm counteracting it on my flatulence alone thanks to those organic cucumbers head chef likes to grow. I blame Dickens on this white Christmas obsession Great Britain has, I've written to him, never had a letter back; typical aristocrat busy body, full of hot air and no substance. Just like that Gordon, the one with the massive airbags, she starts talking, gord knows what she on about. I'm fixated on her chest, greedy mare.
Andrew wants to meet the 'Hoff' so he says, sounds Russian, just leave the blighters alone I say, he smirks and loiters upstairs watching red clad ladies running on a bitch. I say' you'll go blind. That smirk never leaves his brow.
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Rose up to a cuckoo circling my head; I reached for my shot-gun and immediately saw a note on it, 'Phillip, hand in to police, otherwise go down for five years, you've been warned'. Damn women, I've been institutionalized for sixty years; five years in jail will be a holiday. Since then Liz says 'I've gone cuckoo. Her indoors so opinionated, every picture of her wants me to get my wood varnish out, as for me well, I've got more horsy than Brigadier Fox hunter Ann, that red nose one has is not make-up you know, it is due to years sniffing bouquet's and swigging Port behind Lizzies back. The foot soldiers are legless and carry bets for how long they can hold a 1973 Chardonnay Spritzer in their bladders. It's better than going to the races. Their faces look like gargoyles after 4 hours. Another year dawns.
I've been banned from Harrods, gord knows why, that Muslem man went bananas after loosing his precious Ken Dody, in that French tunnel, French drivers eh!! Diana knew about my weekend away at Hugh Hefners bird mansion; bless her cotton socks, she has kept in quiet for years. I send her sultanas and Fur coats to a mental institute just outside Cannes, near where those foreign people try to swim the English Channell, Diana loves being among those types. - William probably won't marry that women who flits from jigsaw to jigsaw, finish one off before moving onto a 250 piece one at least. She seems to get her power suits on especially. William should put his foot down, preferably on er head. Dear Harry, wants to kill Talisman folk who search for mysteries and wear white beards and speak of infidels, I think they're great cigars personally, but the youth always do what they want. When I was a civilian, I would eat as much Greek yogurt as possible, jump up and down and try to fart cheese; before I got a telegram that young Lizzie was looking for fit goat herder. Greek yoghurt guzzler was as close the palace aides got with her requests, the silly blighters.
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Found a secret camera in my dressing gown today, Edward is a budding film director you know. He might go on Big Brother this year, but no one as per usual answers his letters of intent. I said stick to embroidery for Queen Layla and map making for Garmin; he nodded and rode on his bright pink electric scooter back to his hide-out. He's got children, never seen them, they're probably got bald heads and recite the whole of 'The Pirates of Penzance' show by now
Having been a big figure-head for equal rights myself for many decades; making offish gags that borderline racist and insulting ambassadors who may have family in China or Germany; I truly express how stupid my gender can be. I should be stripped from my title and be replaced by a gruff powerhouse facial haired feminist who would demand Lizzie to throw out her pink rinses and make her dress in her uniform as she once did, I would forfeit two packets of humbugs for that; just to see her marching around the place shouting out demands. - Ah, I embrace feminism with big open hands and any other part of the body that I can get away with.
Harman is an authoritarian lady with grand background who dresses like a man and preaches equal rights; the palace breeches these rights as a rule as the taxpayer foots our bills, government recognizes this and turns the other eye on such matters. Her Father is Lord Longworth, he would dress as a girl and sing 'my girl lolly pop' on his day off; ring me up trying to sell me out of date lolly pops. Harman's background sure is sticky. - Fiddling the books is also a palace rule, most of the auditors who annually swan around like they own the place for three days, cogitate in the cellar playing pin the donkey; they dress up in a donkey attire named 'Darling' and chase each other. By the time they finish their stint at auditing walking is quite a feat, the alf wits.
I read the other day that the Royal Bank of Scotland need a bail-out, it made me laugh, Scotland asking Britain for money? - I though sod them, they're too stingy, doubt you will see that again chum. Then I stood motionless and winced, that Scot is Prime minister; were doomed. Gord help us!! We need you, true Brits come back from Australia and Canada, I'll send you copies of 'Countdown' taped from 1985, before Vorderman did stupid 'keep fit' videos.
Woken up by another cuckoo pecking my nose hairs, gits its taken me five years to grow those at that length. I now can't go on that ruddy Simon Cowell Show 'Britain's Got Talent' the human violinist, I now can't hit those high notes doing the National Anthem; silly bird. Blimey, doesn't anyone close windows anymore. It was the most affection I've had since Lizzie found her royal crested hot water bottle in 2002. What a sad day that was. Gord save the Queen, and don't cut our allowances.