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
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