Sunday, August 25, 2013
The King Of England Ate My LOLcats
In my last post, I threw down a withered Marigold glove in the hope that some of you would mistake it for Le Gauntlet de Challenge and proffer suggestions for a future post (ie, this one).
Two great ideas winged their way towards me like the torsos of amputated ducks hurled aloft by a cruel and curious giant.
From Evil Editor came this:
Reproduce the key parts of the court transcript in which arguments were made for who should get Richard III's remains, and why.
And from this blog’s most stalwart supporter, Fairyhedgehog, came this:
You need serious kitten therapy; you should research LOLcats and DailySquee and other cute websites with kittens and your next post should be about why kitten pictures are an essential part of anyone's internetting routine.
Faced with an impossible choice, I opted for a potential conjunction.
And lo, thusly wereth spawned...
This Has NOTHING To Do With Gwyneth Paltrow — OR Her Useless Hair
In a dingy courtroom midway between York and Leicester (albeit c/o an impossibly isoscelesy triangle whose narrowest point pricks at the rings of Saturn..........ha, only joking — we’re right here on terra firma in WORKSOP), crowds gather to witness the fate of England’s last Plantagenet king, Richard “Played by Olivier like a bent saxophone, no less” III.
Some want him buried in Leicester, the place where he fell in battle; others want his remains interred in his birthplace, the city of York (that’s Richard III, not Larry, of course — said Icon of Thesp’s ashes are buried deep within Dame Helen Mirren’s left breast).
Strange as it may seem, the battle for his remains is turning out to be a bloodier spectacle than his original fight to remain alive on Bosworth Field in 1485...
Judge LOLBigScrotum prises his whiskery Manxness from between the polished aluminium flaps of a portable document scanner, pleased to have won 3rd prize in the latest Pets 4 Geeks “Scan Your Cat’s Genitals” competition.
The crowds gasp. “My, what an unfortunate kitty! That scrotum is the size of a beach ball!”
Judge: Silence in court! I will not have my supreme LOLcatness mocked during a trial of such historically significant proportions!
In the gallery, rival groups of the dead king’s supporters trade blows, outstripping the Confederates and the Unionists in their zeal for a punch-up featuring plenty of ludicrous hats, making a mockery of the heartfelt beliefs of crusading Christians and Moors, and pooh-poohing the whole 90s Brit Pop “Oasis vs Blur” shebang like it was a fake showdown between Britney Spears and Kerry Katona dreamed up by the intravenous antidepressant drug industry.
First to plead its case is the York contingent — in the form of Betsy Thripplethwaite-Thripplethwaite-Thripplethwaite (great-grand-daughter, twice removed, thrice operated upon for varicose veins, and four times winner of the annual Doncaster “Looks Like No-one In Particular” Competition), accompanied by an interpreter multitasking on 3 separate dialect-translating laptops from the comfort of a custom-built info-papoose.
Betsy: It’s only right and proper that our good king should be buried in the place where he was born. Back home, alongside the bones of his family and friends, the poor old soul can rest in peace without the echoes of Bosworth Field — the anguished cries of brutally wounded men, the yelps of cruelly dismembered horses — ringing in his ears. Plus, takings are down at the York Minster tourist centre shop and it’s traditionally rough up North, so we could do with the few extra bob that would be generated by having a dead King mounted in a glass cabinet.
In the gallery, the Leicester supporters engage in a fierce charge against their Northern opponents using a ten foot Walker’s Crisps promotional Gary Lineker inflatable as a battering ram.
Judge: *sighs* Why do I always bag the difficult legal cases? Back in Paw Law School, I had every intention of seeing out my days trying unscrupulous vets for miscellaneous mis-neutering misdeeds. Now I find myself at the centre of a pointless historical charade — and all because some dead King’s remains were dug up in a Leicester car park!
Interpreter: Fancy a comforting haiku? I can rustle one up for a tenner if it would help ease the agony of being a frustrated scrotal treasure lost in a throng of warring monarch fanatics.
Judge: Oh, would you?
A burst Gary Lineker flick flacks through the air like an anorexic 70s Russian gymnast as the York supporters load the gallery with catapults primed to fire oversized Tetley tea bags.
Interpreter: Your bag is giant / your laws compliant, and you / are a great Manx...cat.
Judge: You’re charging a tenner for that?
Interpreter: Sorry, pal, but it’s noisy in here.
As tea bags fly from the gallery and the Leicester contingent prepares to quote from the plays of Joe Orton and the songs of Showaddywaddy at the same time, Sir Richard Attenborough glides into the courtroom on an enormous jet-powered cushion, looking every bit the veteran director-cum-actor-cum-brother-to-a-famous-naturalist ponce.
Sir Richard Darlings, darlings, darlings! We simply can’t permit our good King’s lovingly unburied remains to be stolen from the place where he fell. It’s so disrespectful of the dead, treating their decayed bones like dog poop scooped away and binned in a scented bag. However, in pleading for Richard III to remain here in Leicester, I echo the points raised by the hump-backed midget woman with the rotten teeth—
Betsy Hey! That’s discriminatory and offensive!
Sir Richard produces a two pint tot of whiskey from a secret flap in his Jurassic Park T shirt and quaffs till its River Kwai bridge shaped pewter is sucked dry of liquid.
Sir Richard: Oi! I’m honorary president of MENCAP, missus! There’s nothing I don’t know about being fucking discriminatory and offensive! But to continue my point, let’s face it, Leicester is a cultural fucking desert compared to York, and we need every bit of help we can get. Compared to York Minster and all those bloody other churches, and those bishops and saints and all that shit, Englebert Humperdinck and Brucciani’s coffee shop are a slap-in-the-teeth pile of stinking mutton-dressed-as-lamb wrapped up in a fucking waste-of-space charade! Especially on a bloody Sunday and that fucking Eurovision crap!
Judge: Guards! Kindly escort this inebriated star of stage and screen from the courtroom!
Interpreter: It’s 2013 / not 1485, mate: / there ain’t no guards here.
Judge: How are you with a bent old gavel?
Interpreter: My sexuality is none of your business, good sir.
Judge: OK, then just twat him one with whatever you can lay your hands on.
The interpreter leaps from his papoose, another projectile in the raging aerial battle between the tea bags of York and Leicester’s Parker pen nib onslaught. Judge LOLBigScrotum raps his most misshapen testicle with his gavel
Judge: Right, you frenzied and possibly deluded tossers — I’ve made up my mind on this one.
A hush descends on the courtroom — like icing sugar sprinkled on a cinnamon muffin, a burst balloon flopping onto the head of a donkey like a weird swimming hat. Two photographers from DailySquee battle it out for the perfect shot using 33 megapixel cameras in the shape of cheeseburgaz.
Judge: On reflection, I have to side with Leicester. When you’re a young city trying to make its way in the world alongside historical heavyweights like York and Cairo and the suburbs of Kaniapiskau, you need more than being famous for pale orange cheese that tastes like soap and B-list celebrities like Biddy Baxter and Graham Chapman—
Voice from the gallery: Hey! Chapman was A-list, surely? No way is a Python playing Jesus any kind of B or C!
Another voice from the gallery: And don’t forget Una Stubbs and Gok Wan! Or the Elephant Man or Rosemary Conley! I lost an incredible 22lbs off my hips by following one of her diets!
Judge: Hey! I’m on your side, okay? I vote we give Leicester a leg up in the world by allowing it to keep its dead king. In a hundred years time, the world will thank us — even if we’re all speaking Chinese by then and genetically incapable of pronouncing Leicester.
Random dancing girls flood the courtroom, their frenzied can-cans signalling a kind of terpsichorian bye for now, folks while chaos and Jackie Chan back flip kicks maraud their way into life all around...