A Jubilee Warning

Gather ’round friends, and let me tell you a tale. A tale to chill your blood. A tale of power, madness and dogs…

Recently my travails have taken me to the darkest continent of Canadia, a land of wind and ghosts and hockey. There I met a wise woman who told me of the true nature of power and of those who wield it. My friends, read on and know the terrible truth of our very own The Queen:

Born Elizabeth Windsor to unassuming parents from Bromwich, The Queen was noted as a precocious child from an early age. By age 3 she could walk in a manner most regal, and by 5 she could factorise and solve quadratic equations using her colouring book and collection of chubby chalks. It was on her 6th birthday that her parents bought her first dog. A dog that would change the fate of the little island we call INKGLANDD.

The dog’s name was Fg’hanguiw, and was one of those little-legged corgis. Young Liz and Fg’hanguiw became the best of friends, going everywhere together. Even at school the two could not be seperated, any teacher trying to do so feeling a base compulsion to let the young girl and dog be.

It was not long after her 7th birthday that her parents began to notice a certain change in Liz. A blackness to the eyes, reminding them of the documentaries they liked to watch on Shark Week. Few could now resist the commands of the girl. She had already commanded the villagefolk to craft her a hat of the finest gold and jewels, and a cloak of flowing ermine. Over the next few months three more corgis gathered around the young girl, although where they came from the villagers of Bromwich could not tell. Named Shas’yargj, Mrkufgh and Wiggles, the three joined their elder brother and were never seen apart from the young Liz.

Slowly Elizabeth’s influence grew, more and more villages falling under her thrall. Calling herself The Queen (for she had renamed herself after her favourite band), her demands grew more and more improbable: to be present at the opening of parliament, a castle in london, a tower to imprison traitors to her reign. Soon the whole country was under her control, bowing and scraping to her every whim. However, it was by this point that the citizens noticed that Fg’hanguiw was no longer present at The Queen’s side for public appearances. Some servants at the Royal palace claim to have witnessed the dog yapping at the monarch before folding in on itself and disappearing in a puff of mathematics.

Of the three remaining corgis, none were seen again. Occasional yelps, barks and the clatter of chains were said to be heard in the lowest dungeon of the Tower of London, but nothing more.

Over the next five years The Queen’s power waned. In desperation she purchased corgi after corgi, even going so far as to sell her ‘crown’ and several grandchildren to fuel her corgi addiction. Vast corgi corrals in Whitechapel held her collection, but none of the animals held the power that those first four pups did.

Without the influence of the otherworldly dogs, she could no longer command her subjects. Her power exhausted, she is now but a pale shell of a human, given an honorary position as nod to our subjugated past.

Despite what history might say, this is the true story of our monarchy my friends. Remember it well, for you are now one of the select few who know the terrible truth.