This is an alternate universe. Different to the one you know. In this universe the Queen is very, very Scottish.
“Fucking Numpties”, laughed the Queen secterianally. Celtic were getting pumped in Europe again – a rare wee treat for a Thursday night.
“Charlie put it oan!”
“Awww not again mum”
“Charlie. PUT. IT. OAN.”
The bombastic opening F chord of Tina Turner’s “Simply The Best” rips through the Queen’s massive sound system. You know the big curled speakers ye see at big gigs? and they are always up high? Aye well hunners of them.
“CALL YE, I NEED YE, MAH HEARTS OAN FIRE”. The Queen’s deep Scottish brogue surprisingly in tune.
“There’s the pope on the phone mum” Bellowed Charles over the tune.
“TELL HIM TO FUCK AFF”. The Queen begins the rummage for a lighter. Searching deep into the fathoms of her bright orange couch.
“… Just as long as I’m here in your arms I could be in no better place”. A wee Gazza lighter appears from inside a Walter Smith themed pillow. A Flamed spark shoots out first try.
“YA FUCKING BEAUTY!”
“YER FUCKING SIMPLY THE BEST”. The Queen was high as a fucking kite. Downing Red Bulls like the monarchy depended on it. 5-1 against Celtic now, this was like her birthday. Not the fake birthday the public are always wrapped up in. Her REAL birthday, when she can get mad wae it in peace. Not having to wave her wee hand like she’s cleaning an invisible lampshade.
The Queens playlist continues, “A light shown in the night, some way ahead…”. “AH FANCY GOING OUT TBH”, said the Queen full of machismo.
“No mum, you need to rest, you’ve got a meeting with parliament tomorrow”.
“SHOWER OF THIEVING BASTURTS CHARLIE, THEY DON’T DESERVE MAH CONSIDERATION”.
“But mum, it’s parliament?!”
The Queen looked at her soft sack of a son, “But mum it’s parliament”, she repeated back to him in the stupidest voice she could muster.
Charlie looked at his tartan slippers. The Queen had spoken.
“PHONE ME A TAXI”.
“But mum, just take the chauffeur no?”
“OHHH AYE, VERY INCONSPICUOUS, who’s this pulling up in the bulletproof benz wae 40million armed guards”… “PHONE ME A FUCKING TAXI” The queen said, throwing her crown into a giant bean bag composed only of Ally McCoist’s face.
The queen spoke to herself, “That laddy does mah box in”.
“Taxi will be here in 5 minutes”, Charlie suddenly chuffed with the realisation he’d get the palace to himself, might even throw a party of my own he thought!
“That’s actually quite fast son, well done!” “Take back all the bad things I said about ye!” The Queen laughed a right big fucking belly laugh.
“What?” Charles eeked in
“Nuhin, am away to wait outside”. “Mind feed the dugs, and if ye huv a party don’t go in mah fucking room”.
“NAE PATTER. RADIO ON”. The Queen cuts the driver off. It’s always a 50/50 wae the drivers, sometimes they are sound, sometimes they start spouting some political or racist shite. Auld Liz had nae time for that. Safe wae the radio, safe wae Nicki Minaj. Safe wae Anaconda.
“Aye anywhere here is fine”, The Queen hands the driver a twenty, gives a wee knowing wink and heads out into the night.
Any night club will do at this point, even if the music is pish, it’s more about the atmosphere, getting in touch with the common person. Straight by the bouncers, no questions asked, straight through the dance floor, bit ae Calvin Harris, cannae beat it. But the real goldmine is out at the smoking bit. Real patter, wae real people. They should call it the patter section, more folk go out there for a chin wag than anything else. Albeit yer clothes reek of smoke after it. The queen adjusts her wee wrist band, “Basturt has ripped up half my arm hair in this fucking hing”. The Queens tattoo of Broxy Bear faded and worn, but not disturbed by a wee wristband.
She steps through the door, outside, into the lukewarm air. Skins burning a hole in her pocket.
The Space time continuum, rips and un-rips at the same time. A vortex lasting infinity and a millionth of a second comes into existence. The fabric of countless realities stretches out into one huge snake eating its own tail. There is silence. There are low rumblings. There are high Screeches. The blink of an eye, the flutter of a butterflies wings. Like helicopters blades broken at full speed. Like the core of the Earth melting into a solid. A peeling back of all we’ve ever known. Shedding skin, only for it to grow again. Perceptions begin to spin, gathering perpetual motion. From seed to tree to dust. From dust to seed to tree. From tree to dust to seed. A Billion times over. Oceans freeze, land unfurled. Earthquakes, tsunami’s, hurricanes, the very making of life. Comet’s trapped in space forever, circling with no purpose, with no drive. Hoping for anything to crash into, so they can end the misery. Narrowly missing planets, sighing and praying for collision. The sun laughing the whole time, watching, the way a cat watches a mouse. God, ever the eternal voyeur, sits on their Galactic toilet, getting updates about the universe on their phone. God’s shower has been running for 20 minutes now. God doesn’t care. A butterfly un-flaps it’s wings, you blink. The vortex de-materialized as quickly as it appeared.
And there you are.
Standing eccied out your nut.
In the smoking bit of a nightclub.
Watching the Queen whistling the sash and rolling a joint.