Despite the encouragement of butter punks and the heartfelt wishes of all anarchists, God in his wisdom has failed to save the Queen. Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor was born at 02:40 (GMT) on 21 April 1926 with a silver spoon the size of the British Empire in her mewling yap, and has adeptly changed with the fashions as old-school gunboat colonialism was gradually replaced with more PR-friendly neoliberal international corporatism for as long as it took slime to crawl from the sea. The world’s first reality TV celebrity, she was coronated in 1953, and took to the role of globetrotting supervillain with natural ease, maintaining in Britain a semi-divine reverence by the government, media and the majority of her peasants that the Japanese are routinely belittled for possessing of their Emperor before they were nuked into subjugation.
The Queen was the product of generations of institutional design and artifice by the elite classes to create a symbolic, representative figurehead that would make the oppressed deeply love and worship their oppressors. Her death more than after a half-century of ceaseless dominion will engender mass hysteria, parades, the cancelling of Eastenders, and round the clock berations repeating how fucking wonderful she was. The very best of Nazis – one we could love as her boot chokes us out – our favourite dominatrix has been nonconsensually locking us in the dungeon whilst her pimps robbed our pockets for 70 years. HM OG AF, ostentatiously rocking diamonds and ermine before the rationing of meat ended in Britain, head mistress of the benefit-cheats and state-parasites, estimated at being worth a half-billion dollars at time of death, ran her gangster-fam with a pimp-slapping hand. She holds the records for longest-ruling British tyrant, longest-ruling female head of state and occupant of the biggest council house the world has ever seen. Sometimes allowing her naughty side to peek out, she was no stranger to the art of throwing shade, be it by calling a house-servant a gorilla when she became a reality TV show star in 1969 or when she cheekily suggested Romanian dictator Ceaucescu was the one with “blood on his hands”, not a decade after allowing her Indian empire to be carved into inter-ethnic chaos during partition.
Here’s a short educational video outlining some of those less palatable associations:
Big Liz, as she was affectionately known by her personal slaves, was reported by witnesses to indeed have been a killer queen, dynamite with a laser beam, gunpowder and gelatine, guaranteed to blow your mind, anytime. Indoctrinated by a long lineage of fascist sympathisers, she enthusiastically developed her famous stiffwristed regal wave from seig heiling at a young age, before the PR department decided this was too awkward for mass consumption after the failed hostile takeover by members of her husbands family. Seizing Prince Philip as a consort and bottom bitch in 1947, Thriller Phil had sisters who had married German noblemen with Nazi links, and indeed World War 2 was effectively a familial spat over which handshake would dominate.
The British Royal family have always represented the jewel-encrusted tippy-top of the iceberg of the English ruling class, embodying the velvet glove wrapped around the iron fist of autocratic rule that lingers just a shade behind the veneer of constitutional democracy. The Queen reigned above the 3 different branches of aristocratic presentation, aloof, eternal, seemingly immortal: the indomitable confidence, arrogance-breeding and elite schooling of Eton, Oxford and Cambridge is a strain found in politicians such as Jacob Rees-Mogg and friend-to-the-pimps and confirmed mega-nonce Prince Andrew; the fawning, mawkish, patronising, do-gooding charity work and humanitarianism of Prince Charles and David Cameron; the whoops-only-joking outright racism of Boris Johnson and Prince Philip. All of them standard tropes of our betters, those who have successfully stolen and destroyed the common treasury for all and reduced us to serfs and vagabonds on the land their ancestors seized by force and corrupt legislation.
And now the masses mourn for her, and await with delight not only for the grandeur and sincerity of a funeral that could likely refund the pillaged remnants NHS, but for the coronation of a new overlord that will shortly, inevitably follow.
Pfffft, I say. Rasp and pfffft. Big sloppy raspberries to the Queen.
Bow down to her. Bow down. Bow to the Queen of Slime. The Queen of Filth. The Queen of Putresence. Rubbish. Filth. Slime. Muck. Boo.
Let us not be a nation of Westleys, doing as they wish, but be instead a nation of Dread Pirates, passing our own unbreakable lineage of outlaw libertarian socialism from one to another as we die. Let us abolish the monarchy, as we clamour to abolish cops, prisons, the church and the State. Off with their heads. Let us not mourn, but organise. Let us not forget her crimes, her insolence, and what she represented. Let’s remember her for what she was – a divine ruler, birthed and bred to dominate. Let us not forget the hundreds of thousands who died under her reign, those who suffered poverty, inequity, starvation, loss to COVID, abuse at the hand of patriarchs such as Andrew and Saville, whom she out-right protected from harm through her power and influence. Instead of mourning for her, let us organise for them, and continue our collective struggles against the grotesque waste and vile opulence she embodied, living in abject luxury whilst ‘her people’ suffered for generations.
The Queen is dead. Long live anarchy.
Illustration: Rod Webber