Diary of a Queen: May 19th

Dear One’s Diary,

Following yesterday’s rather packed itinerary, today was meant to be a rather more relaxed affair as I visited the National Stud to inspect the quality of Irish horses these days. However, it had completely slipped my mind that Philip and I were attending separate engagements after the visit to the Stud, so I spent most of my time extremely apprehensive, convinced that he was going to go on a rampage, barking accusations at the natives and taking yesterday’s gift of a hurley to the heads of those he suspected of being involved in the death of Lord Mountbatten. I need not have worried, however, as he was perfectly well-behaved and didn’t do anything to upset the apple cart. My beautiful speech from last night must have convinced him that it was time to let bygones be bygones and move on in unity. I wrote most of it on my iPad on the flight over from London, you know, and still had time for a few levels of Angry Birds. It’s even more impressive when you consider that I was off my tits on Xanax to quell my flying nerves.

Despite being preoccupied with thoughts of what Philip might get up to, I did enjoy my time at the National Stud, although some of the horses had the look of Camilla about them, so I was careful to be on my guard in their presence. I must admit to reaching into my knickers to pat my lady-magnum a couple of times, which drew one or two strange glances. But fuck ‘em, I’m the Queen. I can do what I want.

So I had the afternoon off while Philip attended his engagement, which, as I mentioned, went surprisingly well. I relaxed at Farmleigh and spent a couple of hours reading Twilight: New Moon and drinking sherry. I'm determined to finish the series before the last film comes out. Then I downloaded a few episodes of Jersey Shore and put my feet up in my Snooki slippers to stare, aghast, at the latest adventures of those vile creatures. I really don’t know why I put myself through the torture of watching that show – it is possibly the strongest case for forced sterilisation of the vapid ever made. But it’s like a car crash in a Parisian tunnel – you can’t help but keep watching. I took 40 winks after that, then readied myself for my evening engagement.

I met Philip at the National Convention Centre where the British Ambassador was holding an Indoor Garden Party for us. And 2,000 other invited guests. I was curious as to what exactly an “Indoor Garden Party”, held in a giant corporate glasshouse, meant. It means lots of potted plants. There was a fashion show, which was terribly tedious. Nothing bores me more than fashion. I don’t need to see a parade of waifs suffering from malnutrition to tell me how to dress. I know I look fabulous all the fucking time. After the stick insects had scuttled off to vomit backstage, I had my auditory canals raped by the massive, throbbing penis of shit music, in the shape of Westlife. Clearly the Ambassador did not get the memo informing him that I was more in the mood for a bit of Epic Doom Metal or Swedish Industrial Techno Trance. I had 15 e-tabs in my handbag and not once did I feel like popping them. Mary Byrne and Eimear Quinn do not make one want to get loved up and lost in euphoria.

Tomorrow is my last day in Ireland, and I shall be visiting the Rock of Cashel and the English Market in Cork. I hope they sell souvenirs there. I promised Harry I’d get him one of those oversized Leprechaun hats.

Is mise,
Banríon Éilís a Dó

Diary of a Queen: May 18th

Dear One’s Diary,

Terribly busy day today; one is absolutely knackered. I was rudely awoken at an ungodly hour by Philip poking me in the back with his cock. He always gets randy when we’re sleeping in a foreign bedroom. He once joked about keeping a list called “Places I’ve Had Sex with the Queen” but I’m not sure that it’s a joke any more. After dealing with him, I had just about enough time to shower and shave my legs before we were off to the Guinness Storehouse. I’m not much of a stout person; I prefer vodka, gin, brandy, whiskey, whisky, bourbon, absinthe, wine, tequila and my old favourite Sambuca – so I declined the opportunity to taste some of Ireland’s famous tipple. Philip was quite tempted though, until he saw me glowering. What with his tenacious desire to apprehend Lord Mountbatten’s killers on this trip, I thought it best to prevent him imbibing anything that would contribute to increased rambunctiousness on his part.

Following our tour of the stoutery, we were off to the imaginatively titled Government Buildings where I was shown around by that Pinocchio fellow I met yesterday. Sweet divine mother of Christ, he is extraordinarily dull. I can’t recall a single word he mumbled other than the fact that he repeated the phrase “Ireland is open for business” a few dozen times. He may have also mentioned a 5-point plan, but I was too busy admiring the handsome man in the portrait overhead us. Michael Collins, or something. He looked tall. I like my men tall.

Next up was the War Memorial Garden, where I laid a wreath in honour of the Irish who died fighting the Krauts in both wars. Visiting such memorials is necessary to keep people off my family’s deep, dark secret: that we are actually of the House of Saxe-Coburg-Goethe. Mercifully, no one has ever found that out. My family is very good at keeping secrets. For example, I’m still amazed no one has yet discovered we have Diana locked up in the Tower. The skank.

Following that we visited Croke Park, where the Irish play some of their traditional games. I had no idea they had so many original sports – Irish Hockey, Irish Hockey for Lesbians, Irish Football and something called Handle-the-Ball. I was quite interested in the Irish Hockey Stick, as it was quite similar to the shinty stick I used to beat Charles with when he was a lad. And still occasionally do. I was quite tempted to take it to the protestors outside but Philip reminded me that it wouldn’t be good PR to have the monarch herself slaughter a handful of natives 90 years after a similar incident by overzealous constables acting in Grandpapa’s name. A different time, a different place and I would have bashed their fucking heads in, I can tell you that much.

The final event of the day was a State Dinner. I was seated near that bore Cameron but at least Hague was nowhere to be seen. The shiny-headed bollocks was probably innocently sleeping on the floor of an aide’s hotel room, no doubt. Speaking of sexual impropriety, I also noted the presence of Iris Robinson, the scarlet woman of Strangford. I made sure to grasp Philip tightly when she was nearby. One can never be too cautious when one is in the presence of a wanton woman, as I learned that terrible Christmas when Diana attempted to get over-familiar with one’s Philip. The skank. I delivered a well-received speech; I made the joke about Stephen Hawking and the vibrator which always goes down a treat at these sorts of gatherings, and quickly retired to my chambers before Cameron could grab me for some photo opportunities. I honestly never thought I’d miss Gordon Brown, or Blinky as I liked to call him.

We have a much more sedate day planned for tomorrow; we’re to visit the National Stud to meet some of Camilla’s distant relatives. I’d best be on my guard though; they might be in cahoots with Charles.

Is mise,
Lizzie

Diary of a Queen: May 17th

Dear One’s Diary,

Well, I think that went rather swimmingly actually. Philip and I arrived in Ireland just before noon. I had a quick sip or three of some sherry to steady my nerves before we disembarked and were greeted by their version of Nick Clegg, some fellow named Gilmore. Pleasant enough chap, though Philip almost ruined the occasion by accusing him of murdering Lord Mountbatten. I should’ve known bringing Philip would cause problems – he has an awful habit of accusing anyone with the tiniest drop of Irish blood of being involved in his Uncle’s death. I managed to brush it aside as one of his trademark gaffes and an example of his queer Greek sense of humour.

We were escorted to Aras an Mary to meet Mary Something, the current Mary of Ireland. Later on, I visited Trinity College where I met Mary Robinson, the previous Mary. Naming conventions in this country confuse me so. It must be a Catholic thing. Regardless, I had a lovely light lunch with Mary and her husband, Dr. Mary, before changing into my white gardening outfit so that I could plant a tree. A strange reversal of position; the Royal at work in the Irishman’s garden. It’s usually the other way around. I also met the Irish version of David Cameron, a strange little fellow named Edna who appears to be made of wood. For the briefest of moments I thought I was being shown an incredibly lifelike carving in the likeness of a bland looking man. I think I shall call him Pinocchio. I’m the Queen. I can do that.

Onwards to the Garden of Remembrance, where some citizens of Eire had gathered at a distance to celebrate the Royal Presence and chant for me to wear my Black and Tan outfit for some reason. Then they released some black balloons in a measured gesture to reflect the solemnity of the visit. Lovely people; I really can’t see the need for such a high security presence if all Eirefolk are as welcoming as those, aside from the possibility that Charles would take advantage of the situation to try and do me in, obviously. So nice of the Irish to provide security to protect me from my son’s machinations, when I think about it. But it’s not necessary, I do have a black belt in Tae Kwan Do and a small magnum in my knickers at all times, after all. Still, I said nothing, as they’re spending a lot of money that they don’t have just to keep me safe so I wouldn’t want to embarrass them.

Finally, we visited Trinity College where I was shown the Book of Kells. Turns out I had misread my itinerary; I’d originally thought we were going to be viewing the Book of Kelis, which I assumed would be a collection of illustrated lyrics to such hits as Milkshake and (Let’s Get It On) In Public. While I was distracted by the 1200 year old doodles of angels and harps, Philip accused a young woman of killing Lord Mountbatten. Mercifully, she was deaf, and no one else overheard him thanks to the harpist playing nearby. He’s such a fucking dildo sometimes. If he wasn’t such a fantastic ride I would’ve ditched him years ago.

Super Sovereign
Banríon Éilís a Dó

Diary of a Queen: May 16th

Dear One’s Diary,

It’s time for another holiday at my subjects’ expense but this one is a little bit more interesting than most – I’m going to Ireland! It’s one of the few places I’ve never been before and they’re really splashing the cash on the security operation – truth be told they’re spending a lot more on keeping me safe than they are on Obama for his visit the week after. One is pleased by this.

The visit was arranged by their President, Mary Something. To be perfectly frank, I can’t tell any of these Irish heads of state apart. They’re always called Mary something or other. The current Mary lives somewhere called Phoenix Park, where they have a charming cricket ground and some deer. I’d love to shoot at some of them with Philip but I’ve mislaid my shooting spectacles. Anyway, I’m quite looking forward to it; though I’m still completely fucked from William’s recent wedding. It was the party that wouldn’t end – my hands still start jittering every time I see a bottle of Sambuca. I just don’t have the constitution for these weeks-long benders since Margaret died.

I have a larger entourage of hangers-on trying to bask in my reflected Queenly glory than usual due to the importance of this particular trip. That limp-dick David Cameron has insisted on accompanying me, as is that faggot Hague (don’t get me wrong, I love my gays – they don’t call me the original Lady Gaga for nothing after all, but Hague just rubs me the wrong way. I think it’s that grating voice) and there’s some Northern Irish dude I have no idea about; I’ll have to get my Private Secretary to make me some cheat sheets with the names and pictures of some of these people I’ll be expected to recognise. Or I could just do a doddery old woman routine on it if I can’t be arsed. I am 85 after all. And the Queen. If I can't remember someone's name they'll just have to get the fuck over it.

That reminds me, I nearly broke my hole the other day at dinner with Charles – I did the whole pretending-to-be-a-bit-Alzheimer’s thing again (my current favourite practical joke) and then started complaining about a sudden sharp pain in my head. Then I slumped forward, held my breath and started drooling my sweet mango chutney salsa. I swear that the sudden avaricious look on the bastard’s face as he thought he’d finally got the Crown just reinforced my desire to not die until after he does. I’d best be careful during my trip to Ireland, actually, what with scumbag Provos having a bounty on my tiara-topped noggin, it’d provide the perfect cover for Charles to mount yet another attempt on my life. I do so tire of the boy; I really thought he’d get over all of this when I allowed him to marry the horse-woman.

Anyway, enough about the disappointment that is the abortion that got away; I’d best get to bed. I’ll have an early start tomorrow if I want to go over those cheat-sheets.

Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor
Super Sovereign