Nelson Galaxy

Pip and I have now experienced the look of royalty. Walking down Fleet Street yesterday, enjoying the beautiful spring sunshine, we were stopped in our tracks by a large number of police motorcycles. The mounted riders each had a tiny whistle, which they were blasting merrily away on like a song bird with tourettes.

We were stopped from crossing a road by a large helmeted warbler. What strangeness could be about to occur? Could it have anything to do with Saint George’s Day or maybe Shakespeare’s birthday? A gorgeous blue Mercedes slowly rolled past. I could see someone lurking in the dark on the back seat. “Who could it be?” I asked Pip, “Gordon Brown, or Elton John, maybe Darius?”

There, in the rear seat trying to keep low, was sat Princess Anne. She looked very old. Her face was baggy and saggy. Centuries of rule were embedded in those pale, milky eyes. Her head was bobbling loosely in the manner of one of those head bobbling toy thingies.

Like the blood sucking creature she is she was trying to avoid the rays of the sun. However, she could not deny herself a quick peek out of the tinted rear window, to witness her adoring public. Instead, she was greeted by the sight of myself and Pip pulling faces. Our tongues were embedded in our lower lips and we were making idiot noises and dancing like gibbons.

One of the riders moved towards us, his hand at his side, ready to grab his taser from its holster. I silently shouted, “Time for revolution. Off with your head b**ch.” Then made a quick getaway. That’ll show ‘em.