THE DIAMOND JUBILEE
LUV - Fix up, look sharp - it’s the Jubilee again. I know, I know. You’re sick to the eye-teeth* of Jubilees. Every ten years it’s Jubilee this, and Jubilee that. But this Jubilee is special - you see, it’s not the Golden Jubilee - where the Queen celebrated 50 years on the throne - which sounds like a terrible constipation metaphor. It’s not the Silver Jubilee where she famously celebrated the cinematic release of the first** Star Wars movie, and it’s not the Paper Jubilee, which happened when the Queen was a bit friskier, and it was just an excuse to get wasted on poppers and snog that Greek fella by the bins.
We’ve all had Jubilees like that, haven’t we, ladies.
Anyway, this is the Diamond Jubilee, which celebrates the Queen’s 60th year on the throne, and just look how excited she is about it!
Just look at those shiny, shiny eyes. Those are the eyes of someone who’s seen the Duke of Edinburgh clenching on a golden toilet. For sixty years. Those are the eyes of someone who knows they’re going to have to sit through at least twenty minutes of JLS.
Those eyes deserve a party, don’t they?
And what a party. I mean, first the Queen is going to Epsom for a spot of horse racing. That’s Epsom, Surrey! Just imagine. Then she’s going to the Diamond Jubilee River Pageant, where she will lead a flotilla of a thousand boats in a magnificent re-enaction of the film Battleship. The Queen will play Rihanna.
Later, thousands of Jubilee beacons will be lit, culminating in the Queen ritualistically setting fire to Piers Morgan on a spit, and finally there will be the concert at Buckingham Palace, featuring acts that are right up the Queen’s alley, like Jessie J and Ed Sheeran. Cunningly, the Queen has arranged it so that the concert faces away from Buckingham Palace. This is so that the Queen can send a decoy queen to the concert, just like Queen Amidala in the fourth*** Star Wars film. Except, instead of defending her planet from attack, the Queen will be retiring to bed with a bottle of Jim Beam and a swan firmly plugged in each ear.
The next day there’s a carriage procession, where the Queen will doze beneath her hat, nibble on the bacon sandwich she’s stuffed up her sleeve and murmur “man, I so caned it last night” to the Duke of Edinburgh.
Other things the Queen is doing for her Diamond Jubilee:
1. Decreeing that we ALL MUST HAVE LUNCH on Sunday
2. Making bunting THE LAW
3. Giving us an extra day off, but clogging up London and most of the thoroughfares so we can’t travel, and not letting broadcasters put anything interesting on TV, so we are forced to stay home and endure CONVERSATION
4. Inventing Facebook.
On yer, your Maj.
* Whatever they are.
** First movie. Episode IV. Whatever, nerds.
*** Oh my god BITE me.
- Robyn Wilder
HAT - In a way, the Diamond Jubilee makes perfect sense. A woman has kept the same job for 60 years. That’s impressive by anyone’s standards. And so what if the Queen’s job basically involves travelling the world and eating swans and trying not to grimace too much when dirty-faced provincial children hand her tatty flowers and unconvincingly feigning grief whenever a relative dies? Doing that for 60 years is an achievement. It should be marked.
But here’s the thing: I bet the Queen hates the Diamond Jubilee. I bet she properly bloody hates it. I bet it fucks around with her day something rotten. All she wants to do is sit at home watching the Liz Earle Colour Cosmetics hour on QVC, but no. She has to get on a poxy boat and spend four hours waving at idiots. She has to pretend that she’s never seen a bloody flypast before. And, worst of all, she’s got to host a fucking concert in her back garden.
Last time was bad enough. For her Golden Jubilee, the Queen had to put up with Paul McCartney singing a thirteen-hour-long version of Hey Jude and that hairy twonk from Queen basically just having a wank on her roof. But this year will be worse. Because this year she has to put up with Gary Fucking Barlow as well.
Imagine it. You’re trying to have a nice day and then Gary Fucking Barlow - a man who wants a knighthood so badly that it’s all he can do not to shit himself at the merest thought of it - sidles up.
“Ooh, that’s a nice blouse your majesty,” he’ll say. Or “Do you like this special song I wrote for you, ma’am?”. Or “Mhhng-mmmh-nunnng-mhfhmm?” as he tries to fit his entire tongue all the way up your fucking bumhole. It’d be awful. Gary Fucking Barlow will ruin the Jubilee for the Queen.
But I don’t just hate the Jubilee because of Gary Barlow. I hate it because of all the opportunistic shit that’s suddenly popped up everywhere. You can’t buy a plate that hasn’t got a Union Jack on it. You can’t buy a cushion that hasn’t got a Union Jack on it. You can’t go into a shopping centre any more without feeling like you’ve accidentally set foot inside a terrifyingly sterile BNP rally.
But the worst thing about the Diamond Jubilee - the very worst thing about anything - is this: the Sainsbury’s Mr & Mrs Jubilee gingerbread men. Just look at it:
For the rest of my life, this is what the Diamond Jubilee will represent: a pair of vast, orange, bald, no-neck weirdos staring down at me with their unblinking boggly eyes - her with a tiny dress Sellotaped to the front of her naked body and him in a pair of nightmarish transparent trousers with a colossal wad of jizz splashed across his blood-coloured tunic. I won’t ever get any more sleep for the rest of my life thanks to Mr & Mrs Jubilee. Thanks a fucking lot, the Queen. You idiot.
- Stuart Heritage
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