If you remember earlier this week, which will be a feat of memory beyond most of you over twelve years old, I challenged gobby Prince George to a duel. This wasn't an act of aggression on my part. He started it.
Kate had already made it known that she was backing me. Apparently, motherhood wasn't all she was expecting it to be. Every time she threatened to remove the Prince's Lego, George would start to write out an execution order. She'd had enough. I also had a short call from William last night offering a knighthood should I complete my mission.
Anyway, this morning I arrived at our duelling venue, Wimbledon Common, at the prescribed time. I could see Prince George, all alone in the distance, pacing about. He saw me and shouted over.
“Oi, chicken balls, you gonna do it, or what?”
He waved his gun in my direction. I wasn't going to hang around. I suspected that the murder of the third in line to the throne in broad daylight may attract unwarranted attention. I pulled out the Magnum acquired for me by my BCF, Robert Bundzenieks, pulled its heavy trigger and put a bullet through his tiny brain. His crown whirled through the air and landed in a nearby bin. That's it, George, keep Britain tidy. Job done! Arise Sir Ratpike!
Kate and Wills came rushing out of the Ford Capri from which they'd been watching the event. Before reaching the cadaver, Wills looked over and gave me a thumbs up. But his mood changed as he reached the body. He took off his own crown, dashed it to the ground and jumped up and down on it. I walked over quickly.
“What's the matter?” I asked. “Oh, your crown's got some dog shit on it.”
“This isn't him,” he said. “It's his body double. The fucker's legged it.”
So now it would seem that I have a nemesis, and he's on the lose, which I find rather exciting.
Kate had already made it known that she was backing me. Apparently, motherhood wasn't all she was expecting it to be. Every time she threatened to remove the Prince's Lego, George would start to write out an execution order. She'd had enough. I also had a short call from William last night offering a knighthood should I complete my mission.
Anyway, this morning I arrived at our duelling venue, Wimbledon Common, at the prescribed time. I could see Prince George, all alone in the distance, pacing about. He saw me and shouted over.
“Oi, chicken balls, you gonna do it, or what?”
He waved his gun in my direction. I wasn't going to hang around. I suspected that the murder of the third in line to the throne in broad daylight may attract unwarranted attention. I pulled out the Magnum acquired for me by my BCF, Robert Bundzenieks, pulled its heavy trigger and put a bullet through his tiny brain. His crown whirled through the air and landed in a nearby bin. That's it, George, keep Britain tidy. Job done! Arise Sir Ratpike!
Kate and Wills came rushing out of the Ford Capri from which they'd been watching the event. Before reaching the cadaver, Wills looked over and gave me a thumbs up. But his mood changed as he reached the body. He took off his own crown, dashed it to the ground and jumped up and down on it. I walked over quickly.
“What's the matter?” I asked. “Oh, your crown's got some dog shit on it.”
“This isn't him,” he said. “It's his body double. The fucker's legged it.”
So now it would seem that I have a nemesis, and he's on the lose, which I find rather exciting.
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