Late
last night I got a phone call from Prince George. I think he'd been
on the port. He was giving it large. As you can guess, I'm not easily
intimidated but he was trying his best.
“Euston,
you worthless sack of shit,” he starts, “I've only just turned one
and I'm already richer than you are, you loser.”
You
don't really expect this sort of behaviour from a future monarch. Or,
then again, maybe you do.
“And
I'm going to stay richer than you and I don't have to do a single
day's work in my entire life, you proletariat tossball. And I've
already got a crown an' all. So stick that up your hoop.”
I
tried to remain respectful. I've always had a lot of time for the
royal family, especially when they manage to pull off that air of
overbearing superiority without possessing a single talent of any
kind. That takes some doing. But Prince George was going too far. I
collapsed.
“Yes,
I accept,” I said.
“Accept
what, you bin-faced wanksplat?”
“Your
challenge of a duel. I accept.”
He
went quiet. I heard him gulp. And then he replied in a measured tone.
“Alright,
10 am, Wimbledon Common, this Friday.”
“Fair
enough,” I said coolly. “But no toy guns. I seriously want
to kill you to death.”
Then
he started crying and calling for his mum. I heard a loud slap
followed by silence and then Kate appeared on the phone.
“Don't
worry, Euston”, she said. “He'll be there. Oh, and Euston?”
“Yes,”
I replied.
“Please
do your best. We're sick of the little fuck.”
So
that should be fun.
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