british royalty

HIJINX AT HIGH LEVELS

A Broad Sweep of Ancient and

Recent Great British History with

Geography and Monkey Business

By Izzy Ess of Inverness

Sir Sydney Bluestreak owned the land betwixt the River Dee and the Firth of Forth.  ‘Twas the Ides of February and the snow lay on the ground.  The year was 1234 and the battle raged between his Sophisticated Army Ants and the Pheasant Peasants, eh?  The Pheasant Peasants were losing birds and men and Birdmen of Alcatraz, and were about to surrender when a flying dragon, breathing fire, surprised the archers and the soldiers of Sir Sydney’s Army Ants and chased them into Theodore’s big briny.  Sir Henry Silencer was struck by lightning and he suffered with a heartburn that floored him, then and there.  The thunderstorm raged on and dissipated everyone and flooded out the Plains of Abraham, Ibrahim and the Cherubim.  The Nephalim still loved all the women and they reproduced themselves, quite eloquently.

In 1215, the Magna Carta was signed and countersigned by the reigning King, King John and all the wealthy owners of the land and separated the old Monarchy from the ravages of creeping businessmen, who knew the value of a pound of Sterling.  It made the Monarchy extremely rich with coffers that were filled continuously with a portion of the taxes duly collected from the worker bees and sexy chrones who hovered all around the fat Queen Bee.  The Nephalim still sought out pretty women and they reproduced themselves, quite frequently and eloquently.  The devilish old Sheriff, from the Shire of Nottingham, had both his eyes on Maiden Marion, but she had eyes for Robin Hood, the erstwhile Squire of Effingham, who had the Effing Nerve to shoot an arrow in the air and indicate that that was where he wanted to be killed and buried.  Sir Robert Locksley, was affronted and confronted, by the quite impoverished old Lion King, the Richard III bold doppelgänger, who also ogled Maiden Marion, who, if truth be told, wasn’t any more a maiden than the stable boys who freely mingled with the chambermaids and reproduced themselves, quite frequently, and not so eloquently.

Sir William Wallace and his side-kick Bruce, the Robert, ravaged northern England and befuddled Mary Queen of Scots the Catholic half-sister of Elizabeth the First, who wrote the folios attributed to Willie Shakespeare in iambic hexameter, while poor love-starved Willie had the job of reproducing all the writing, concerning all the Royal Mischief, in Pentametre, Iambique.  Delibes and Handel wrote the water-works and fire-works concerti and were satisfied that boating on the Thames and gathering for all festivities in the Royal Courtyard, would never be the same.  Unbeknownst to everyone, the first Elizabeth wrote the new Bible in such poetry that the new King James refused to read it ‘til the poetry was abandoned for the dull style of the English, spoken at that time.  Queen Elizabeth could not object without revealing she was the quite unmarried great grand poetess who wrote the Bible and the Shakespeare folios.  Amen and Hallelujah, eh?  Incidentally, the Virgin Queen Elizabeth was not a virgin but a wild and woolly teenage playmate of the month for the Duke of Wessex, whom she had to silence to avoid publicity about her private parts invasion.  She had poor Wessex drawn and quartered, while his private parts were secretly sequestered and cast in bronze for our Elizabeth to have and hold and fondle for her later years, whose ruffled neck wear covered up the myriad of hickeys she received when she had rendezvous with every Duke and Duchess that would make themselves available to Willie and our Liz.

The modern story of the British Monarchy is rife with rifles and the same intrigue that plagued the members of the Royal Court from the beginning.  Can you imagine our Prince Charley dallying with a married woman, while the not so frail Princess of Diana waited for him to get dressed and showered for her.  Finally, he did, and reproduced himself with two nice boys who also dallied with disaster ere they settled down and chose some beautiful princesses and their lovely sisters to keep company and reproduce themselves.  Harry, and his brother William, were so handsome; they could attract a million women, if they played it right.  Today, it looks like there comes the stage of high propriety for engagement and the marriages for reproducing monarch butterflies and emperor dragon flies, at will.  And, lo, the Camilla had just sued for her divorce, demanding scads of compensation for the fact that someone cannot perform for her and her great private parts.  Oh well, what goes around, doth come around.  The Royal Entourage will have comeuppance, by and by, eh my dearest readers, who have been wondering what the point of all this writing is about.  Honestly, dear readers, I haven’t got a clue.  Perhaps, you all can make some sense of it, but I must wrap things up and go to sleep and dream of complicated plots for novelettes, novella and short stories, short and longer poetry and multilingual conniving stories of intrigue.

THE END

© izzy sommers, md

Wetland, Kanata

Close enough to the

Ides of October to just

Call it quits, for now…