First things. Feeling a little bit low ain't the blues. Homeless, down to your last dollar. Your soul mate ran off with your ex-best friend. All 12 of your kids croaked from diphtheria, a condition you can't even spell. All you got is this beaten up old guitar and a booze bottle on its last dregs. Either you sing this song or you kill yourself. That's the blues. More real than international humanitarian justice. More rewarding than tombola. More forgiving than Robespierre.
Bob shaves the King, the Queen, the Prince, the Duchess and any pretty neck he fancies. Flop your nape down onto Mme Guillotine. What actually happens after the severing of the head from torso? Do the systemically posh bleed blue? Keeping it real with our on-the-spot sports report for anti-royalist scum.
The vertebrae of neck cracks. Skull is lobbed onto dirt. Eyelids and lips of the guillotined posho spasm irregularly for about 5 or 6 seconds. Spasmodic movements stop and the face relaxes, the lids half close, till only the white of the conjunctiva is visible. Eyeballs!
The vertebrae of neck cracks. Skull is lobbed onto dirt. Eyelids and lips of the guillotined posho spasm irregularly for about 5 or 6 seconds. Spasmodic movements stop and the face relaxes, the lids half close, till only the white of the conjunctiva is visible. Eyeballs!
It's then that the Duchess of Success calls out in a sharp voice: "Langoustines! They're so not Goddam easy to eat, Reverend Curry."
"Relax, sister. And stop blaspheming. Just carefully pull the tail away from the ginger hair and... hey presto! You got yourself a right royal skull, princess."
Eyelids slowly rise, without any spasmodic contractions now, but with an even movement, such as happens in Hammer House of Horror, with ham actors torn from thoughts of filming schedules and bills.
"Relax, sister. And stop blaspheming. Just carefully pull the tail away from the ginger hair and... hey presto! You got yourself a right royal skull, princess."
Eyelids slowly rise, without any spasmodic contractions now, but with an even movement, such as happens in Hammer House of Horror, with ham actors torn from thoughts of filming schedules and bills.
The eyes of the langoustine very definitely fix on the Duchess and the pupils focus. We're not, then, dealing with the vague dull look of the expressionless, such that can be observed in any dying crustacean to which one speaks. We're talking about living eyes which are looking right back at ya baby. Undeniably.
Victoria Beckham looks displaced.
After much flash photography, the eyelids close again, slowly and evenly, and the head takes on a celebrity appearance for charity. It's at that point that the black & white princess, who without the blue shit is truly only a duchess, calls out Harvey Weinstein again. And, once more, without any spasm, slowly, the eyelids lift and eyes fix themselves on the newly wedded and ultimate in fairy tales. Now with even greater penetration into her private hell.
Idris Elba and Selena Williams break through the cordon sanitaire around James Corden’s karaoke gene pool. Stella McCartney’s vegan sausages hang around the neck of the newly anointed.
And Victoria Beckham looks displeased. All is as should be.
Then, further closing of the eyelids, but less complete. No more momentum. The eyes have acquired the glazed look of the undead and the compliant.
The decapitation of the ginger headed has been recounted with rigorous exactness. The whole monarchy thing: 25 to 30 years, tops.
And Victoria Beckham is wearing Victoria Beckham...
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