My Name’s Samuel Wood and I’m a Monarchist

I suppose now I’ll need to carry a show-handkerchief and sprout a moustache for folk to tell whether they should respect me or not.

That way I’ll have two things to weep into as I think of the Queen.

I was enjoying a five pound note on Bonfire Night and came away from the experience a Monarchist.

There are only a few years left of the goodest girl, so why not be a Monarchist for the remainder?

If we were to take up republican arms and cast her out onto the Mall, I’d feel wretched.

It seems too easy to picture; the Queen dazed and confused and wondering where to make her way to now she’s without a household to come thither with a blanket and tuck her in…somewhere.

I’d have to relieve her; scoop her up in my messianic middle-class arms and take her home to meet my children. Put her in a shoe box beneath the bed where she’ll eventually die because we miss-fed her dog food.

She may be largely redundant; but it is the strict cohesion of everyone taking this redundancy too seriously that makes her too vital for the nation for us to permit her to pass away.

This being said, I also feel the rise in me of the notion that she has the will for survival as such the daughter-of-mother-nature it becomes macabre.

Butlers, maids and chauffeurs must know they are useful in their current application though also qualify too easily as eventual arrow-fodder and food source. Matter and masses; as it were.

The sensation I’m suffering in two-way tides is that of a masculine/gentleman’s urge to protect the Queen with my English manhood, and to allow her to lead me to my death in use as a barricade and elevenses’.

I’m an individual sort of chap but I’m happy to dive my head into some of that “Dear Leader” complex and feel like I’ve achieved something because I have a Queen.

I’ve got a Queen; what’ve you got?

A senate?

Pfft. Don’t make me laugh inside (I’d never denote external emotion beyond “ooh what a lovely bouquet of flowers. My house is simply desolate of posies; thank you so awfully much for standing in line today”).

Democracy is for pussies and men who don’t love their grandmother enough.

Let’s talk in terms of granite here.

At war, your senate will discuss which of each of them gains possession of the fallen’s body parts, so as to knaw upon in their final few cannibalistic moments, whilst MY Queen will be standing on the beaches; with crown askew and rabid corgi by her side in delicious anticipation of being used as a by-the-tail-club-to-be-swung, sharpening her own knuckles and daring ISIS to take another step towards her.

She’s MINE.

I’ve got a Queen.

And I’ll apply her to the affected area liberally.

Why do this? What is she good for, sir?

To become a tad more staunch, perhaps sir?

The Queen makes me stiff, not only in my upper lip, but in every appropriate body part that could do with a wee bit of starching, as well as subjugately flaccid in the single area of pride and shame and irreverence to both penile emotions.

She makes me stiff like a patriot should be; stiff for my country and stiff for my Queen.

Stiffer than a millennial knows how.

The Queen is one of those few things I’ll someday cry about, simply because…she won’t cry in return.

Much like how she wept a sturdy gallon of tears for her retired battleship; she wouldn’t do that for me and I love her for it.

I know that, deep in the belly of Buckingham and Balmoral, she will let loose a lonely droplet for a corgi and she’ll never do that in front of me; and that makes me want to blubber into my stiff moustache.

The Queen is a battleship and I adore her because she sank Nazis and kept us buoyant.

What did your congress do?

Did they gather?

I’ll tell you what the nation’s ‘MRS’ did; she continued as she was bound to.

So quietly dignified that everyone knew about it.

She would wail a piece of aristocratic pottery deep into the noggin of a petulant and “awfully presumptuous” intruder and then proceed to not understand why the nation’s papers are making such a fuss.

Don’t intrude upon my Queen.

She’s mine.

And I’ll let her loose on you if you don’t staunch up.

Come be stiff with me.

Oh well chaps. All in good spirits; I’m sure your senate and congress are a charming collection when only one gets to know them.

Here’s a scheme; how about the matinee of Comus at the Globe next Saturday?

You bribe and collect the Senate and Congress to be there for 14:30. They can each have a cushion.

I’ll bring the Queen and her throne; you fucking loser.

Queendom; bitch.

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