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