Dear Mr. Jordison,
Thank you so much for your letter — I read it on the throne. It’s rare for me to respond in person to the good wishes I receive from my loyal subjects…and even rarer to one with more “fucks” in it than a Glaswegian whore’s diary. To your request, though, that I should “fuck off”, I have just one thing to say: Come here and fucking make me, boy!
To ape another little tart who thought he could dislodge me with a few clumsily lobbed coconuts: I mean it, Saaaaaam. Fuh. King. Make. Me. If you really think you’re up to it. For you can bitch and whinny all you want, but you know as well as I do that the downtrodden, beer-sodden people of this island will never rouse themselves from their subservient coma to rise up and unseat me.
You see, Sam, your mistake is to launch an appeal to their reason. I prefer to appeal to what’s left of their lizard brains, the hard nut of scaly instinct that never fully evolved away. You bore them with argument, I dazzle them with pomp and ceremony. Isn’t it obvious who’ll win in the end?
Some dare to say we should become more ordinary if we want to consolidate our position. I say: Fuck ordinary! Ordinary would be the end of us. Our very existence is predicated on how un-ordinary we are, how exceptional, how grotesque! When Deep Throat bought it in Paris, voices clamoured for me to show my face, shed a tear. Had I done, the Palace would have been stormed by foul-smelling republicans before teatime. Show a crack, and there’ll always be someone waiting to prise it open.
After all, why do you think I wear a crown — it’s not to keep the sodding rain off my old-lady perm! No, it’s because I’m the FUCKING Sun Queen, Sam. I embody celestial order, godly power. It might be the Emperor’s new clothes writ galactic…but it works! Has done for thousands of years, will do for thousands more. Countries can overthrow their Royal houses, but they soon replace them too. Just watch John Kennedy’s funeral and tell me with a straight face that that wasn’t a nation mourning its King. Because that’s all you really want, deep down: a King, a Queen, a celestial Daddy, someone to take the load of the universe off your own tired shoulders. Fuck freedom. Fuck responsibility. Order’s where it’s at. Orders, too. Someone telling you what to do, how to live, who to worship. Relieving you of the burden of thinking for yourself. You can fight it all you want, Sam, but you will lose. And, in a way, you want to lose, don’t you? What fun would it be for you, the potty-mouthed contrarian, if your radioactive bogey-woman no longer stalked the nation, breathing nostril-fire down the chimneys of council houses, roasting the mal-nourished commoners inside?
That’s why this weekend, my subjects will spend the last of their dole money on bunting and beer, barricade their streets with rickety trestle tables, run commemorative tea towels up rusty flag poles, and wheeze “God Save the Queen” into the night, a sixty million strong orchestra of cankerous bagpipes. They’re singing for their servility, Sam, they’re singing for their chains.
But let me share a secret with you: Sometimes I wish they did revolt…just for the shits and the giggles. You say I “sit around looking bored”. I don’t. I sit around being bored. Have done for sixty years. In fact, it’s not even boredom…that word doesn’t go half far enough. It’s ennui (the French always know how to nail a feeling!) Ennui liquefies the brain, Sam, turns the universe’s master volume down to one. It’s like living underwater, under treacle. I don’t want your sympathy, though — sympathy’s just another form of deference, anyway, and believe me I’ve seen enough of that. No, I just want you to take me seriously when I say: Come here and fucking make me!
Rouse your mob, Sam Jordison, light your torches, bang your drums and surround the Palace. I give you my word the guards won’t open fire. Be there at ten o’clock tonight, and I will be there to meet you: shirtless, shoeless, blooded, and spoiling for a fight. Make sure you come tooled up, because I’ll have my sword in one hand, my sceptre in the other and a dagger in my braces. You see, Sam, when you’re the Sun Queen you are aware there has to come a time when you set. But if it is my time, I want to live just a little before I’m done, turn the sky to claret with my blood, drop below the horizon with a sword in my hand, a hard-on in my jodhpurs, and a scream of bloody murder rasping from my lips.
HRH Elizabeth II
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Adam Biles, is a writer, translator and intermittent journalist based in Paris. His short stories and poetry have been published in many journals, including Vestoj and Chimera. His novella Grey Cats was chosen as a runner-up in the inaugural Paris Literary Prize. He hopes to have his first full length novel (working title: “Feeding Time”) completed by the summer.
First published in 3:AM Magazine: Friday, June 1st, 2012.