The X-Factor 2011: Week One

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Diary of a Queen: Berlin Pt2

Dear One’s Diary

Arrived safe and sound after a somewhat turbulent flight yesterday – I calmed my nerves by getting jolly on overpriced vodka. They’re fucking robbers, those Ryanair bastards. But I can’t stay angry at Michael O’Leary for long. I find him oddly alluring. Philip and I occasionally role-play; him as Michael, me as the anthropomorphic embodiment of the concept of profit. Oh, those are passionate nights. Checked into my hotel and in my drunken state almost gave the game away; momentarily forgetting that I’m here as Lois Carmen Denominator and not HRH Queen Elizabeth II. I covered my tracks by heavily tipping the young Aryan bell-hop who was taking my bags. I really shouldn’t have brought my tiara and sceptre with me, I suppose, but that’s what happens when you pack in a hurry, isn’t it?

I slept soundly, and arose early to see some sights on a walking tour. Well, I say walking, but I actually rented a Segway scooter. I’m not quite as young as I used to be and I don’t want to have my corns flare up at me on the first day of my holidays. We took in many a location; the Brandenburg Gates and the statue of Victory over Paris almost brought a tear to my eye – nothing touches me more than anti-French sentiment. Fucking frogs. We visited the largest stretch of Berlin Wall still standing – it’s surrounded by barriers to prevent people taking chunks as souvenirs but I reckon if I head back in the early hours of the night that I can hop the barrier, bash a chunk off with my sceptre and take cover in a nearby pub in no time at all, especially with the increased mobility and speed the Segway gives me. I think I’ll invest in one for home. Should make traversing Buckingham Palace a whole new experience. Among other locations, we also stopped by the site of Hitler’s death. Ah, diary, the nostalgia at revisiting the Fuhrerbunker brought me back to that glorious day in April 1945 when, incognito as Eva Braun, I surprised an amorous Adolf in the bunkerbedroom with a lady-magnum and brought his reign of terror to an end, single-handedly. Those were good times; I didn’t have as much fun after that until I brought the Cuban Missile Crisis to a close.

Following my walking tour, I visited the Zoo to lay a wreath for poor Knut, then made my way back to the hotel for a rest. Night fell, and I spent the evening whizzing about on the scooter visiting various pubs and clubs. I berated some ladies of the night who approached me offering their services; asking them what their mothers would think in perfect Deutsche. Things got heated and I gave one of them a whack with my handbag. Alas, I forgot my sceptre was in there and fell to the ground like a sack of herpes-riddled potatoes. I made a speedy getaway and settled in for the night at a pleasant little bar. I may have gotten slightly tipsy, as I awoke this morning back in my hotel room with no recollection of the journey back, no sceptre and no sign of my scooter. I think I’ll miss that more than the sceptre, which was getting a little bit worn looking. And there's plenty more where it came from, anyway.

I have lots of plans for the remainder of my holiday, however I see things are quite fraught back home in London. If that twit Cameron and bumbling oaf Boris can’t set things straight I’ll have to head back and sort it out myself.

Ich Bin Ein Lizzie

Diary of a Queen: Berlin Pt1

Dear One’s Diary

The flight and hotel have been booked – I’m heading to Berlin for my Summer sojourn. It’s always nice to visit the motherland, and to do so in disguise, as one of the common people, affords a wonderful opportunity to experience a different side to a place; one that normally eludes me as I am forced to march through a procession of formal events, pomp and pageantry. I first hit upon the notion of using a disguise back in 1998, when I desperately wished to visit Brazil during Carnival but couldn’t afford to be discovered parting hard in the streets of Rio given that I was meant to be showing restraint following the death of Diana. Ironic that I had to go to such lengths to avoid scandal given the amount of it she generated during her public life. And doubly ironic that her “death” should inconvenience me so at the time when I actually have her chained up in the Tower, alive and mostly well. But I digress. Over the years I have carefully refined my disguise into a distinct alter ego – Lois Carmen Denominator. Married seven times to various multi-millionaire hotel magnates and entrepreneurs who died suspiciously, Lois is an eccentric and profligate woman-of-means, a refined and sophisticated culture vulture and occasional party animal. She is an enigma, wrapped in a guessing game, stuffed into a blender full of questions and smeared all over the playing pieces of Cluedo. She has become a dear friend to me, this persona I adopt, and I slip into her as easily as I do a pair of scarlet crotch-less suspenders.

I plan to take in several sights, and I may perhaps slip out of the Lois Common Denominator disguise to share some tea with Angela and give her some more advice on how she could appear more feminine. Though she didn’t take kindly to my previous advice on hemlines and lipstick and promptly deleted it from her Wall. Perhaps I'll share with her my ideas on sorting out this European debt crisis instead, or have a laugh or two about that insecure toad Nicholas.

Ich Bin Ein Lizzie

Diary of a Queen: July 04th

Happy Independence Day, former subjects! The door is always open to return should you ever tire of being run by Biblical literalists who marry their cousins. I know, I know, I’m one to talk about in-breeding, but the offer stands.

I realise that I never finished blogging about my experiences in Ireland. Well, I can’t be fucking arsed finishing it now and even if I wanted to, I went off my tits on Salvia Divinorum and can’t remember much of the last 3 weeks. I think I forgot to feed Diana, too. Whoops. Oh well, it's not like starving for 3 weeks is a new experience to her. I think she once survived for 2 months on nothing but dust and the smell of roast beef; just to fit into a John Galliano.

William and Kate are having a smashing time in Canada. They’re terribly popular. I wonder, for the sake of the future of the monarchy, would it be possible to abort Charles at this late stage?

I'm off to do some Yogalates. I find it makes me nice and limber for my tantric sex sessions with Philip.

TTYL

Lizzie

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