NNNN’s Royal Correspondent Lurpac De Moine Previews the King’s Speech

Our late Queen always found the Christmas speech business a little tiresome, or at least that’s what her Lady-in-Waiting’s second cousin’s hairdresser’s neighbour’s plumber told me. Being a royal correspondent, i’m lucky enough to be ‘in the circle’ so to speak, not to brag. 

Her Majesty was never a performer, never one to pretend to be something she was not. In fact, she detested the Channel 4 show ‘Naked Attraction’ for this very reason, she didn’t like the idea of getting to know people in installments, she wanted to greet people eye to eye, to really get the measure of the man.

So filming her yearly message was always over rather quickly, she opted for as few takes as possible. In 44 of her speeches she did it all in one take! Not even Brando could’ve done that, although there were plans for him to replace Her Majesty in 1992 when she was feeling unwell, though they were scrapped and she did the speech anyway. Her ‘Annus Horribilis’ line was inspired by Brando’s ‘the horror’ speech in Apocalypse Now! Bet you didn’t know that little tidbit!

But Her Majesty is with us no more. For the first time in 70 years, we have a new monarch, King Charles III. In another life, perhaps Charles would’ve become an actor. He certainly dabbled in it at university, and is an ardent Shakespeare enthusiast. So speaking to the nation for the first time should, one suspects, be an occasion the new King relishes. 

I’ve already been hearing reports that Charles tried to enlist the help of playwright Jez Butterworth (of ‘Jerusalem’ fame) to help give the speech some ‘oomph’. When Butterworth declined, he turned to Phoebe Waller-Bridge (of ‘Fleabag’ fame), but she too declined as she was too busy polishing up the script for the new Hugh Hefner biopic. 

I did hear a rumour that he wanted to perform an interpretive dance to accompany the speech, and tried to enlist the help of theatre company Frantic Assembly. They too declined, so he attempted to choreograph the dance himself, leaving him with a broken collar bone. This is all hearsay, my readers, but, from what I personally know about His Majesty, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it were true. 

Another rumour was swirling around the royal forums recently claiming that Camilla will be beside him for the speech. Whether this is for emotional support, we don't know. It's possible Her Royal Highness will act as a metaphorical 'gun to the head' for Charles. Perhaps he performs better under pressure. One close associate described Camilla's company as feeling "strained, like having a .44 Magnum aimed at your temple", another went even further by claiming it feels like a bullet has actually been fired at your head, leaving you to "scramble around looking for pieces of your frontal lobe strewn all over the floor".

I did once hear an anecdote about a young horse girl being introduced to the then Duchess of Cornwall at an equestrian event. She'd won first prize for her age group, and was seen as a future Olympian, but after meeting the Duchess she slowly spiraled into a deep chasm of depression and started to loathe anything equine-related. It seems the Duchess had somehow, within a 5-minute meeting, sucked the joy out of horses and that had left a considerable vacuum in the girl's life. It did get better for her though, thank goodness! The Duchess, that is, not the girl, the girl died. She was found lying unconscious in her room with pictures of Camilla's head with her eyes cut out transposed onto a horse's body. No one's ever figured out what that all meant, but I for one wouldn't touch it with a barge pole, leave it to the armchair psychologists. But the Duchess went on to become Queen Consort and, in my very humble opinion, is doing a most excellent job!

I did have a quick word with the News, News, News, News editor who gave me permission to publish this alleged draft version of Charles' Christmas Day address that was leaked to me by an anonymous source known only to me as "Huw". It reads:

"This year has been a year like no other. 'Change' is perhaps a fitting word to describe 2022. Change has engulfed our way of life like a nanny engulfs one and smacks one on the bottom for saying a naughty word like 'damn' or 'nitwit'. Change has engulfed our lives like Dorothy Tutin engulfed the stage as Rosalind in As You Like It at the Royal Shakespeare Company in 1967. Change has engulfed our lives like a particularly delicious white Stilton gold engulfs your taste buds at an afternoon cheese-tasting on a village green in the Cotswolds. 

One of the many things my Mother taught me was to embrace change. She taught me that one's principles should remain unwavering, even if everything around you is changing at a pace which seems terrifying. She taught me to value humility, kindness, courage and conviction. She taught me to listen to others and to value each and every person one encounters, even if that person is ugly, like, objectively ugly, like, so ugly that even my late wife Diana would say "fuck this, i'm out! Would someone please cut the brakes on my car? I just can't. I just can't!"

I wholeheartedly believe my late Mother's lessons will remain important for many years to come. She devoted her entire life to serving her country with quiet dignity and hard-work. She alone determined her own fate, and never benefited from a friendly right-wing tabloid culture which carefully sculpted our family's favourable image over many decades. 

My mother believed in cooperation, communication and honesty. She believed in decency in politics, and that is why, in 70 years of British life under Queen Elizabeth, there was no political disagreement whatsoe'er. She believed in cooperation between faiths, and that is why, in the 70 years she inhabited the throne, all religions in our United Kingdom were able to live in harmony together, Protestants, Catholics, Quakers and all the other ones with funny Elephant Gods." 

As your new monarch, I intend to continue my mother's legacy as best I can. I will continue to swallow up public money, I will continue to support the Saudi Arabian regime, I will continue to enable our tabloid culture to pick apart my daughter-in-law like vultures, I will continue to deliver bland, uninspiring messages on Christmas Day each year, and I will continue to tell fairy-tales to myself about how much you all love me and my wife. 

I wish you all a very happy Christmas. 

Now, this is only rumoured to be his speech, I have no idea how much of the leak is true, and perhaps once this article is published and the internet explodes, His Majesty will alter his speech. But you heard it on NNNN first. What an advertisement this is for the great journalistic work that NNNN carries out day to day. Quite frankly I feel honoured to write for this paper. Join me in 2023 to keep up to date with all the Royal shithousery and hijinks that goes on behind palace walls! 

Dear Eileen: My Husband is Underwhelming in Bed, Should I Attempt to Galvanise his Testicles by Hooking Them up to a Car Battery?

My name is (Fmr) Sister Eileen Kirkup, I am 76 years old and I am a lapsed nun. My hobbies include baking, knitting and sprucing.

This weeks question comes from Tabitha in Muswell Hill, she asks, "Dear Eileen, my husband is underwhelming in bed, should I attempt to galvanise his testicles by hooking them up to a car battery?"

My Child,

Oh, good heavens! No sex, please! I'm a nun, and i'm British! 

I'm just joking with you, my child, I welcome all kinds of questions from my readers, no matter the subject matter! I may be a former nun, but i'm no prude, and no stranger to the crude, and neither is News, News, News, News. Other agony aunts tend to be more reserved, but I like to think NNNN hired me to subvert those expectations in a way. I view myself as a harpsichord among pianos, so to speak, I appear at first to look like a normal agony aunt, but when one attempts to get a tune out of me, one is shocked to hear such an offbeat sound! Besides, I'm actually a very big fan of Banksy, I have some t-shirts with his art, i'm a bit of a rebel, really!

Now, to answer your question/query, I first must tell you of how I became aware of 'such matters' when I was younger. A lot of us first hear about it from friends, or in sexual education class, but my experience was quite different. As you would've probably guessed, my parents were people of faith, deeply respected in their community and in their church. My father, Claus, was instrumental in raising money for the church when an oak tree smashed through the William Morris stained-glass windows in the great storm of 1963. Not only did he stage several wondrous one-man productions of medieval miracle plays, he also memorised the entire Old Testament and walked from Land's End to John O' Groats reciting it, egged on by a loyal crowd of supporters in every village, town, borough and city he passed through. My old man caught pneumonia, sprained his ankle, got bitten by a grass snake and was harassed by a group of rambling Jehovah's witnesses who were also taking the same route. But none of this fazed him, he completed the journey, raised more than enough money to restore the windows, and was even rewarded with a place on the stained-glass window near Saint Paul. 

My mother had the same community-driven spirit, she was also quite the inventor! She invented the organ pipe cleaner which is still used in parishes around the country to this day! The times were changing in the mid-1950s and child welfare laws prohibited small children from climbing into the pipes as this was seen as a risk to their respiratory health, and many people didn't believe their existence was physically possible in the first place, so my dear mother managed to convert an old curtain rail into a large pipe cleaner by wrapping it in llama fur. Sourcing the llamas was not as big a problem as you may have thought. Every year, their village celebrated Whitsun by tying six llamas to a maypole and watching them shuffle round. The first llama to stop and sit down would be the ‘chosen one’, they’d untie it, give it a throne and a sceptre, and if it grunted at an anyone, the unfortunate villager would be slaughtered and fed to the llama. They don’t put the ceremony on anymore, my child, I think it was Thatcher who put an end to it, the killjoy that she was.

Well, one wintry afternoon we were snowed in to our little cottage on the edge of the village. Completely barricaded by snow! I remember my father stooping beside the fireplace, praying for the snow to melt, whilst my mother was busy strapping an old iron to a piece of rope and lowering it onto the snow, hoping it would act as a melting device. Unfortunately it had little to no effect and this greatly dismayed my mother, as she always seemed to prevail against the odds, no matter how hard things got. Clearly mighty mother nature was a step too far even for her. I remember her cussing and swearing about the house, which quite aggravated my father, who was busy trying to figure out what sins he could’ve committed for God to create such misery. He went through a long list of misdemeanors like having a second serving of pudding last Wednesday, accidentally standing on Mrs Prufrock’s lawn after leaving Church, sending his daughter to Catholic school etc.

They then proceeded to have an almighty screaming match for the next 27 minutes and 35 seconds. I evacuated to my special hiding place in the room at the top of the house, behind father's bookshelf filled with dusty, leather-bound bibles. I never did peruse through them, though I did once attempt to open one up but was cruelly bitten by a bug sitting on the frontispiece on Jesus' face. I think it's safe to say, my child, that you won't encounter a speck of dust in my house now. 

When I pressed my ear to the floor to listen for more commotion downstairs I heard only silence, though a deafening one. Making the trek downstairs always felt like walking through a forest near Chernobyl after the reactor exploded, thick, British, repressed, middle-class marital-anger choking you up, rotting your insides, although I think I turned out OK, my child!

I couldn't find Mother or Father anywhere in the house. Usually mother would take a post-screaming match walk down to see the sheep at the bottom of the village, and father would just sleep. I realised I hadn't checked their room, so when I did, I opened the door slowly, peeked my head around, and.. well, my child, they were engaging in what my young mind could only fathom as 'procreation-adjacent Human Play-Doh'. 

I never mentioned it to either of them, one wouldn't. Looking back I do wonder why these conjugal endings to their screaming matches didn't stop the screaming matches happening in the first place, in fact, if anything they became more violent, sharp, biting and vicious. Perhaps the ferocity of their rows directly correlated with their increased mutual enjoyment of love-making, but I really don't know, and, I can't stress this enough, my child, I don't want to think about any of it. So, if you don't mind, I won't offer my opinion with regards to your Husband and whether you should harness an electrical current to stimulate his genitalia. 

I wish you a very merry Christmas!

Yours, 

Eileen

Sir Keir Starmer Denies Allegations of Him Being an Arsenal Fan

Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer has today rubbished the allegations of him being a supporter of football club Arsenal F.C. The allegations, which first surfaced as part of a eight month-long Guardian investigation, have sent shock waves throughout the political establishment, with some calling for the leader of the opposition to resign, or be killed with a mace. 

The tax payer-funded investigation released it's findings on Wednesday evening after Prime Minister's Questions to avoid accusations of political bias in the timing of the release. Mr Starmer's constituency office, his house and his Mondeo were immediately targeted by protesters demanding a response from a man considered a 'prime minister in waiting'. The Labour leader, who's held the position since 2020, was quickly escorted, along with his family, to a safe house located in the village of Langwathby in Cumbria, next to the chicken processing factory. 

Justice Secretary Demonic Wrath has called the allegations 'putrid and sadistic', and 'beyond the realms of any decent person's wildest imagination'. Culture secretary and former I'm a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here! contestant Nadine Dorries described hearing the news as 'like being hit by nunchuks in a darkened crypt'. 

Prime minister Boris Johnson, currently in Rwanda for the Commonwealth Heads of Government meeting, announced in a press conference his intention to enforce a long-overdue police crackdown on Arsenal fans. Home secretary Priti Patel, currently in Transylvania on a confidential trip, was optimistic about a new law being passed within days. All 650 Members of Parliament have publicly announced they'll vote for the new laws to pass, even reformed Arsenal fan and former Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn, who critics believe is just trying to make peace with God and repent his past sins as an Arsenal supporter.

Mr Starmer's statement, which was communicated via motion capture by the actor Andy Serkis outside the Old Bailey, reads: 

"These allegations are blatantly untrue and clearly politically-motivated. I have never, and will never support Arsenal Football Club, and have never associated with anyone who does. I intend to fight these allegations in the only way I know how, cautiously, meticulously and with contained, blandly-delivered oratory."

Following Mr Starmer's statement, the Guardian released photographs of the Labour leader in an Arsenal shirt, along with past quotes referencing his love of Arsenal. A spokesperson for Mr Starmer doubted the authenticity of the photos and claimed Mr Starmer was joking when he made those comments. 

"Those comments were clearly intended as a joke. This is a terrifying indictment of the failing standards of British comedy of the last 30 years. Our national sense of humour has seemingly been dumbed down to such a degree that Mrs. Brown's Boys is now a sitcom considered a national institution. Whatever happened to Monty Python, Not the Nine O' Clock News, The Frost Report, Beyond the Fringe, The Day Today, Brass Eye, A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Bruiser, Smack the Pony, The Fast Show, Big Train, Ruddy Hell! It's Harry and Paul, Alas Smith and Jones, The Armando Iannucci Show, French and Saunders, The Smell of Reeves and Mortimer, The Armstrong & Miller Show, The Mighty Boosh, Not Only... But Also, This Morning With Richard, Not Judy and Fist of Fun?"

Arsenal Football Club, when asked for comment, welcomed the news and called Keir Starmer 'a shining, glistening light in these dark times of cancel culture and political correctness'. Manager Mikel Arteta reportedly rang Mr Starmer to offer his support. GCHQ are alleged to have been listening into the call, which was leaked to the Daily Star earlier today. The transcript of the call reads:

Mikel Arteta (MA): Comrade Starmer! Ah, my friend, I congratulate you on your balls.

Keir Starmer (KS): My balls?

MA: Yes, comrade! Your balls, your big, big balls. Your big, brave guts to speak out and give us your support!

KS: Oh, yes, of course, yes, thank you, Mr Arteta, to be frank with you, it wasn't meant to come out this way. 

MA: How do you mean, comrade? 

KS: Well, it was meant to be secret, I hoped for it to remain that way for at least 120 years, or at least until society is more tolerant and accepting, and this is no longer seen as such a stigma.

MA: Stigma? No, no, my friend, you are a lion! You have done something which will ripple down the generations, see? Because of you, children all over the world will not have to live in fear of being shunned for their footballing affiliations. No longer will men be put in stocks, no longer will women have to fear the scold's bridal. No longer will Piers Morgan have to repress his mediocre white male rage and live in shame for supporting our club. Because of you, my friend, Piers Morgan will experience a long and protracted emotional ejaculation the likes of which have never been experienced before. And for that, I thank you.

KS: Well, goodness, thank you, Mikel. I, I didn't consider the consequences of what my speaking out could achieve. I guess I was so hung up on presenting myself as an electorally-viable, centrist, milque-toast, dull-as-dishwater alternative to the chaos of the Johnson government, I didn't realise telling the truth and being myself could have such far-reaching consequences. 

MA: It's alright, comrade, I know the pressures of being a leader. Every day I have The Queen in my ear, suggesting I give Eddie Nketiah a chance to lead the front line, or bring William Saliba back from his loan spell at Marseille to strengthen our defence, it's insufferable. One cannot always be a people-pleaser, but one must persist, one must fight on and never surrender. Never! Never! Never!

KS: The Queen? The Queen is an Arsenal fan? 

MA: Oh yes! The biggest. Imagine if that came out, comrade? It'd be anarchy in the streets.

KS: Christ above.

MA: Anyway, comrade, I need to resume contract talks with Gabriel Jesus, he wants us to insert a clause where he's allowed free trips to the British Museum and the V&A. We're trying to tell him they're free of charge, but he's so stubborn. 

KS: Okay, Mr Arteta, listen, thank you so much for your call, you are a beacon of strength for us Arsenal supporters, a warrior, you go girl!

(Hangs up)

The news that the Queen is also an Arsenal fan was quickly drowned out by a slew of gaudy, sensationalist headlines about Meghan, Duchess of Sussex like "MEGHAN IS BAD! MEGHAN IS BAD! DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO THE RECENT NEWS THAT THE QUEEN IS A DIRTY, ROTTEN ARSENAL FAN! MEGHAN IS BAD, MEGHAN IS BAD. SHE KILLS KITTENS! MEGHAN IS BAD!"

the Labour Party have announced a leadership contest is imminent. Shadow Health Secretary and Wetherspoons barman who always IDs regulars Wes Streeting is considered the front-runner. 

News, News, News, News, Words, Words, Words, Words with Lexicographer Volumnia Clifford-Bayonet

That's right, my erudite little elves! News, News, News, News now has an official lexicographer! The search was long and tiresome, but they finally found someone with at least two GCSEs and at least a basic ability to string a sentences togethers. One of my many linguistic passions is delving into the rich history of the English language to find novel and extinct phrases where the origins of said phrase is hotly-disputed. Most of the these phrases would have been used everyday by normal, working people of centuries past, it really brings home how ephemeral and fleeting our language is. We must grasp it like an apple hanging from a tree by a dangerous and frosty ravine in the Swiss Alps. Once we've set sail on our journey of linguistic discovery, we won't regret taking the leap. So join me, my insatiable wordlets, let's leap into the unknown! I'm Volumnia Clifford-Bayonet and this is my column and no one else's.

Bishop's handwriting

When one writes in an overly ecclesiastical and spiritually verbose way. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Seamus, don't get all high and mighty there with your Bishop's handwriting, Reverend Prunethorne will give you a right seeing to."

This may have originated in the 18th century when undercover Jacobites used to steal sermons being prepared by vicars and amend the wording to include concealed blasphemies. Stories tell of vicars unknowingly preaching about giving women and working class people the vote, abolishing public executions, allowing the publishing of erotic literature, and cancelling HS2 and compensating all the families affected. 

Pricking the Nobleman's Coffers With One's Stick

When one is overly sycophantic around a gentleman of high-standing. e.g. "You better watch yourself,  Mary Beth, you'll get a nasty clip round the ear if he thinks you're pricking the nobleman's coffers with one's stick!"

This is believed to have originated in the Edwardian era when servants used ask their employers for better pay and working conditions. The Times of London managed to dissuade the employers from displaying kindness and indulging the staff by coining this phrase, thereby saving the aristocracy a tuppence or two. 

Riding One's Whippet Round the Maypole

When one is spoiling the fun for the other children by ruining the playing equipment. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Roscoe, you don't want the other parents to think you're riding your whippet round the maypole"

The consensus among us lexicographers (we don't often find consensus, Susie Dent once mailed me a horse's head with the words "Your sesquipedalian loquaciousness is impermeable proof of your intrinsic ingordigiousness" branded on it's face.) is that this phrase clearly originated in the Victorian era. Interestingly the origin of the phrase 'dancing around the maypole' is thought to have a rather disturbing backstory. Men in 16th century London were tied to ropes surrounding a maypole situated in the House of Commons, ploughed with mead and made to run round in circles for 5 hours before being released and made to perform for the MPs' pleasure, stumbling about in a dizzy, drunken stupor as the landed gentry scoffed and jeered at them. This is thought to be why MPs to this day laugh and make loud, wailing sounds whilst debating policies which affect poor people. 

Flirting With the Buoys 

When one veers too far out to sea on an inflatable dinghy. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Consuela, don't let me catch you flirting with the buoys."

The first record of someone using this term is thought to be in 1890s Whitby, England. Grizzly old bearded fishermen would warn the children playing on the beaches to avoid 'flirting with the buoys', meaning to not swim out too far. Some believe it also meant to avoid love-making whilst at sea, for fear of sea-sickness. During the 1890s in particular there were a large number of offshore gay communities operating outside the purview of the law. This theory was once portrayed in a now lost 1955 BBC sitcom 'The Sailor Went to Sea, Sea, Sea, to See Who He Could Sodomise". This was the 1950s, remember, homosexuality was still illegal and it's believed this sitcom was commissioned by the Conservative government of the time as anti-gay propaganda. 

Incinerating the Groom's Nunchuks 

When one conspires with one's groom's parents to persuade him not to go on a night out. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Maximilian, she may be incinerating the groom's nunchuks as we speak". 

A lexicographer friend of mine suggested this term originated during the 80s when English football fans were particularly troublesome when traveling abroad. Wives would start to shred their plane tickets to avoid paying for bail every time their husbands got thrown into a Greek prison cell. 

Eating Spam With Mr Anderson

When one's mother warns you not to become like her weird, survivalist, conspiracy theorist brother who lives in an air-raid shelter. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Kenneth, you don't want to end up like ol' Graham out there, eating spam with Mr Anderson."

It's not known whether this became a saying during or after the second world war, but it first became widely popularised on the 1954 BBC sitcom 'Keep the Home Friars Burning', about a group of mischievous friars shining torches in the streets during blackouts and being the bane of the town. No taping of the sitcom survives. 

Placing One's Head in Mr Peterson's Nards

When one discovers a new faux-intellectual YouTuber and becomes insufferable around the dinner table talking about him. e.g. "You better watch yourself, Ethan, it's beginning to look like you're placing your head in Mr Peterson's Nards." 

Not entirely sure of the origin of this one, though it was possibly a phrase used by the Bloomsbury Group of the early 20th century. 

Merriam-Webster Option Rights to Name All Future Generations

Are you from the 'Golden Generation'? Perhaps you belong to 'Generation X', or perhaps you're so old, you belong to the 'Silent Generation'. These are just a few examples of how different generations have been classified and colloquialized over the years by historians and lay people alike. They've become a source of fierce debate, usually pertaining to their boundaries and who belongs with what generation. Spaghetti has been lobbed across tables by 'Baby Boomers' claiming to belong to 'Generation X', or 'Silencers' claiming to be 'Goldies'. Both 'Millennials' and 'Zoomers' have been scorned by your "red-pilled" right-wing mother-in-law for being too 'woke', as have 'Baby Boomers' for being out of touch. 

It's a useful, yet ultimately superficial way of classifying different generations. Human beings can no longer fight each other with lances, spears and swords, so we require petty and generalized labels to do the necessary jabbing for us. They aren't merely words, they're weapons, symbols, potent pieces of language used to prod and degrade a person, or an entire people, to reduce them to a 'meme' or to highlight their inferiority compared to one's own generation. 

Merriam-Webster don't agree with this definition, however. They've optioned the rights to name all future generations beyond the 'Alpha Generation', believed to be those born after 2012. All future generations' names will be released every 20 years or so, and will be decided by a committee of marketing executives and 'influencers' who are in touch with prevailing generational vibes. 

Corrie Fayver, Assistant Vice President of Public Naming and Societal Categorization, has described the move as 'necessary to encourage a shared sense of being in our society'. What she means by this is still uncertain, though she went on to say:

"If we just let the masses decide how generations are categorized, they'll get it wrong, as they always do. By entrusting this task to a committee of engaged and innovative marketing executives and influencers, we ensure that tabloids and 'top 10' columns will be able to neatly divide their audiences into different groups, allowing the tabloids to generate income by manufacturing conflict between said generations and the 'top 10' columns to suggest trends to a hyper-specific audience."

Some have called the move 'cynical and quasi-fascistic', though Fayver rejects such terms. "That's such a Millennial thing to say! Calling everything fascism. See what I did there? I was able to use an instantly recognizable term to emphasize my point and win the argument! It's so convenient! We no longer need to be capable of empathy or compassion, or even patience to debate things and learn about other people! It's all pointless and cumbersome. Use these terms instead and kill em' dead! It's the only way. It is, after all, best for business".

Fayver then disappeared in a cloud of green smoke, which then turned into Piers Morgan's grinning face. 

This news comes after it emerged Rupert Murdoch has copyrighted the terms 'woke', 'snowflake' and 'cancel culture' and will continue to use the terms until their potency wears out. He'll then create new terms, again via a committee, but this time comprised of right-wing talk show hosts, politicians, Daily Telegraph journalists and your right-wing mother-in-law. Who knows what said terms could be? BetVictor have 'Ronas' at 4/1, which is believed to be those born after the Coronavirus pandemic of 2020, and 'Burners' at 6/1, believed to be those born after the planet has succumbed to global warming. 

NNNN’s Royal Correspondent Lurpac De Moine’s Guide to The Queen’s Platinum Jubilee Celebrations

As the official News, News, News, News royal correspondent, a role i've undertook since the departure of Hortensia Napkin-Breeding in 2015, one of my many duties has been to prepare for this very week. I say 'undertook', 'inhabited' may be a more appropriate word, I've been afflicted with many a sleepless night during these past seven years lying awake thinking about the enormity of this task. I even missed the pandemic, flew right past me, In fact on March 23rd 2020, the day the United Kingdom entered it's first lockdown, I was immersed in a tense interaction over Skype with a Thai gentleman who claimed to know what cutlery the Duchess of Cornwall prefers. Such royal tidbits are like caviar and small wheat crackers to a monarchy buff like me, I seek them out like a shark-moth mutant seeks out an underwater light-bulb stained with the blood of a careless swimmer. 

Her Majesty The Queen, our national figurehead, our conscience, the jewel of England and all the other nations, will be celebrating 70 years on the throne, or to put it another way, 70 years since she heard her Dad died whilst she sat in a Kenyan tree house.

This is a very brief summary of the activities going on this weekend, so, fellow loyal subjects, strap on!

Lucy Worsley Royal Cosplay Pageant, Hyde Park, Saturday 4pm

This event is not, as one might initially think, an event where attendants dress as the delightful BBC host and curator of Historic Royal Palaces Lucy Worsley, though I, along with many other middle-class repressed dads, would attend such an event. No, this wonderful idea was conceived by Miss Worsley herself as a way of celebrating the fashion of the royals over these past 70 glorious years. Children and adults of all ages will be shown to a large fenced area with a large mound of genuine royal clothes lying within. Mirrors will surround the area and members of the public will hear a countdown, after which they must scour the enormous pile of clothes donated by the royals and attempt to find a matching costume. For example, one must not be content with Princess Margaret's stockings, Queen Mary of Teck's dress and Prince Michael of Kent's cuff-links. They must be matching pairs, matching pairs, I say! Good lord, I hope this goes down without a hitch, we'd do well to avoid a Hunger Games-style cut-throat kerfuffle amidst all this bad press surrounding the royals. 

80 members of the public at a time will be allowed in the fenced area.. they'll all be asked to strip to their bare essentials ready to jump in and find matching pairs of clothing. When a lucky member has found and clothed themselves with a matching pair, Lucy herself will inspect them, and if they're found to have won, they win the entire pile of the public's clothing. 

Oh, darling Lucy, this is a wonderful idea, and I would love to swing-by, as they say, and witness all the fun, but I myself will be at another event. 

Gyles Brandreth Teaches Naughty Men How to Talk Properly, Hampton Court Palace, Sunday 9pm

Oh, darling Gyles, what a splendid idea! 

Taking place in the cellars of the gorgeous Hampton Court Palace after nightfall, broadcaster Gyles Brandreth will gather together a horde of illiterate and scruffy-looking petty criminals and teach them how to speak the Queen's English. He'll carry a birch cane to beat the sorry little reprobates into compliance, and, one hopes, will instill in them an unquenchable thirst for the English language. If any prisoner dare lash out or start sulking, Gyles will force them to eat a copy of his book 'Have You Eaten Grandma?'

The entire proceedings will be live-streamed to the YouTube and a live chat will be set up where users will, for a small donation, be able to suggest phrases, idioms, sayings or proverbs for the young vagabonds to get their tongue around. If the thick scumbags are unable to properly pronounce said phrase, idiom, saying or proverb, the user will be free to suggest a fitting punishment for Gyles to enforce. 

I've spoken to dear Gyles and he is positively frothing at the mouth with excitement! I too look forward to seeing some low-life cokeheads learn some manners. I and a few VIP guests will be watching behind a three way mirror, slowly sipping our tea and raising our eyebrows at the linguistic primitiveness of these depraved young jailbirds.

Prince William Scalp Garden Challenge for Male Pattern Baldness, Chelsea, Saturday, 2pm

Alongside Wayne Rooney, Ralph Fiennes and Michael Fabricant, Prince William, Duke of Cambridge is the most prominent public figure who suffers from male pattern baldness. To raise money for 'Finding Your Roots' a Sussex-based charity, the Duke will host a gardening challenge in Chelsea whereby a contestant will frantically run round a giant flower bed meant to represent the Duke's scalp and attempt to plant synthetic flowers. He/she wins when the entire scalp is covered, sounds easy, right? Wrong! Their rival contestant will simultaneously be answering royalty-themed quiz questions from Ben Shephard, every question they get correct means two flowers are plucked from the ground, thus making the first contestants job that little bit harder. 

It'll all be a great deal of rollicking fun and it's all done for such a good cause. The contest will be followed by an emotional plea by William, asking for donations. The Duke will also announce a new charity aimed at raising awareness of the plight of his son, Prince George, who may one day suffer the same fate as his father. The Philip Larkin poem 'This Be the Verse' will be recited by the young royal, opening with the immortal lines "They fuck you up, your Mum and Dad", alluding to his father's baldness.

SAS: Who Dares Sweat? With Emily Maitlis, Pizza Express, Woking, Sunday 2pm

In this highly-anticipated event, BBC Newsnight presenter Emily Maitlis will conduct one on one interviews with sex offenders, whose goal it is not to sweat under her intense questioning. Bradley Walsh will be under the offender with a large bucket counting the drops of sweat as they fall. If an offender makes it through the interview without sweating, he or she will win a meal with Prince Andrew in the winner's prison cell. 

Now, i'm no sleuth, but I feel like this is a thinly-disguised ploy to get Prince Andrew into jail. They'll bring him to the winner's cell, cook a bitchin' lamb casserole, then just lock them both in as they eat and reminisce about their predatory heydays. 

Maybe this is for the best, either way, somebody is going to be Maitlissed. 

Enjoy Your Weekend!

I simply cannot wait for this marvelous jubilee weekend, i've waited years and can't believe it's finally happening. If any of you see me over the weekend, do say hello, i'm more than happy to pose for selfies or give you a hearty fisting-pump. Do be aware that I am woefully short-sighted, so if you see me from afar and you're waving frantically, I won't see you, dear. But I appreciate the sentiment. 

I'VE JUST BEEN INFORMED THE PISSING JUBILEE WAS LAST WEEKEND. OH BUGGER, BUGGER, BUGGER. FLAMING CHRIST IN AN APPLE CRUMBLE, WHAT THE EFFING SHIT IS GOING ON? SEVEN YEARS! SEVEN YEARS I'VE PREPARED FOR THIS. OH, BUGGERATION NATION! WHY? WHY? WHY DIDN'T I WRITE IT ON MY CALENDAR? OH, PISSING SHRIMP CAKES! I CAN'T EFFING BELIEVE IT! OH, HORTENSIA' S GOING TO LOVE THIS, HER SUCCESSOR MISSES THE PLATINUM JUBILEE WHILE SHE'S WORKING FOR VOGUE MAGAZINE IN NEW YORK! I WANT TO WORK FOR VOGUE MAGAZINE IN NEW YORK. I'VE GOT LOTS TO SAY ABOUT FASHION! LOTS! I'VE SEEN LOADS OF CLOTHES IN MY LIFETIME. FUCKING HORTENSIA. OH, I CANNOT EFFING BELIEVE IT. IT'S TYPICAL. "GO WORK FOR NNNN, THEY NEED A ROYAL CORRESPONDENT, YOU'D BE GREAT!" OH, WHY DID I LISTEN TO ANDREW NEIL? THIS IS WORST THAN BEING SACKED FROM GB NEWS! AT LEAST THEY STILL HAVE THE BOTTOM OF THE BARREL, I'M UNDERNEATH THE PISSING BARREL, AND I'M BEING SQUASHED BY IT! HELP! HELP ME! OH GOODNESS GRACIOUS CHRIST ON A PRIT-STICK. 

I will get through this, I will get through this, I will get through this. I guess in ten years time it'll be her Oak anniversary. 80 years on the throne. 106 year-old Elizabeth celebrates with England and just England since Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland will have gained independence. Imagine it. She comes out onto the balcony, sons, daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great great-grandchildren by her side, everyone will be so happy, so jubilant. It'll be simply wonderful, beautiful beyond compa...

NNNN would like to wish a speedy recovery to Lurpac after his very unfortunate car crash. He is still unconscious, yet stable and muttering about 'oaks'.

Dear Eileen: There's a Bald Man in a White Gown Playing a Tiny Guitar on my Front Lawn, What Does This Mean?

My name is (fmr) Sister Eileen Kirkup, I am 76 years old and I am a lapsed nun. I enjoy sounding and baking.

This weeks question comes from Meredith in Aberdeen, she asks: Dear Eileen, there's a bald man in a white gown playing a tiny guitar on my front lawn, what does this mean?

My Child,

Oh my, what a peculiar surprise this must be! Now, the important thing here is not to panic, my child. Strangers pass through our lives for many different reasons, if one is spiritual, like me, one might be inclined to ask oneself, what did God intend to communicate by sending this gentleman? Or if one is an atheist, one might ask oneself, what did science intend to communicate by sending this gentleman? I believe that is what an atheist would ask, but, my child, as you are probably aware, atheism is frowned upon in Catholic schools and, in some cases, actively discouraged, so I wasn't aware it existed till a very mature age. 

Now, before I examine why this particular gentleman is on your front lawn, I must regale you with a story of a stranger from my youth. As I have probably mentioned in a previous column, I had a very successful career as a nurse after my de-nunnification. It was whilst working in a sleepy little village in Norfolk called Bondsbury that I met a country gentleman named Willoughby. Now, how best to describe Willoughby? Rotund, eccentric, sentimental... a fruitcake blowing in the wind, rootless and without an abode, tiresome, petulant, bloody-minded, but fair, opinionated, but with a strong Catholic sense of right and wrong, fiery and bashful in his approach to the day but brittle and weak in the evening hours and prone to intense spells of deep blue morosity, insulated from worldly troubles but well-travelled and well-read with an ear for accents,  elegant and pleasant when a pretty lady was in town but soup-stained and without manners in masculine company. Hateful of small birds, but generous in his distribution of bird feed, a grammar-Nazi, yet an innovative wordsmith able to create words out of thin air. A ruminative, soulful flaneur of life, capable of conjuring a bone-deep existential rage one minute, then a calm, melancholic silence the next. But, my child, I don't really remember the gentlemen very well. 

Well, one day, my front doorbell rang and I was knee deep in historical culinary experimentation (a guilty pastime of mine!), Medieval pottage was my challenge, so you can imagine my cottage was rich with the smell of steaming veg and various herbs, such a smell I still associate with a certain wholesomeness and homeliness in life. I opened the door to see Willoughby wearing his best yellow and indigo vertical pin-striped suit, smoking an ornate-looking wooden pipe and looking very fine indeed. I asked him if he wished to come in, and he replied "No madam, I do not wish to keep you long. I just came to inform you of a certain peepin' tom I discovered looking through your window the other night. You should know I gave him a thick ear and let him know if I e'er saw him a' lingerin' in that spot again, I shall invite on him such a devilish brutality as no man, woman nor urchin e'er knew."

I was, understandably, quite aghast at the forcefulness of Willoughby's pronouncement. I thanked him and again invited him in. This time he accepted and we spent a wonderful afternoon trying to decipher medieval cookery books. Willoughby was somehow perfectly skilled at transcribing old English lexicography, claiming he learnt from a medieval Florentine time-traveler named Lorenzo. I dared not question the gentlemen as to the encounter, as it was clearly a real, lucid experience to him and we all need our own little novelties, my child. Though, it must be said, Willoughby had several thousand. We supped that evening and I can honestly say my appetite has never felt more sated, it felt like my taste buds were being molly-coddled and pampered by an endless flow of flavoursome plunder sent down from the highest heavens by a divine gourmet pirate chef. Everything in God's universe seemed perfectly aligned and blissfully tranquil. Willoughby also enjoyed the meal, though when he finished, he sat back on his chair, patted his belly, then looked out of the window wistfully saying, "Lorenzo could have done that better. Lorenzo. Oh, Lorenzo. How far you have fallen, my friend! My old friend!"

I comforted Willoughby the best I could. But he left in haste, thanking me for an enjoyable meal and excellent company. As he left he reminded me to be on the look out for the peeping tom as I undressed in my private quarters that evening. I did just that when evening came, making sure to close all my curtains, lock all the doors and windows, and I kept the outside light on in my garden to deter any trespassers. I also stationed a small wooden cross on my kitchen window, so as to let the would-be intruder know a woman of faith lived here, because, my child, at that age I still believed no harm would come to me as a result of my piousness, I still believed there was a line no criminal or ne'er-do-well would cross, especially when it came to the Catholic faith. I was infinitely trusting, a blessing and a curse. 

I slept soundly that night, my child, and for the next several nights, I might add. I was starting to have doubts about the veracity of Willoughby's version of events. Why was he even near my back garden in the first place? I didn't think ill of the gent at first, that would've been ungodly of me, though I must admit I did try to avoid Willoughby for the time being, any interaction we did have on the village green was short, polite and terse. I resolved to make him a stranger without his consent. I feigned interest and felt a gut-wrenching guilt for the whole sorry state of things. These days, my child, it wouldn't bother me as much, but, at that young, tender age, I felt a responsibility to play my part in everyone else's symphony whilst letting my own clarinets, violins, cymbals and assorted orchestral ephemera gather dust and lay forgotten.

I started to resent Willoughby and this caused me great distress. I lay awake at night trying to decipher my place in the universe. If I wasn't put on this Earth to be of service to others, why was I here? Why had I turned my back on being a nun and what did that say about me? I felt selfish, petulant, self-absorbed. Why had I let myself hate this man who's done me no wrong? A man who seemingly just wanted to protect me? I felt I should return to the convent and repent, I even packed a bag ready to leave. I wasn't able to meet Willoughby's eyes again, not without it awakening a dread inside of my stomach that throbbed viciously till it brought me to despair. My thoughts were black with sin. 'This man is a liar!', 'this man wants to destroy me!', 'this man is Lucifer in a yellow and indigo pin-striped suit!' These thoughts were followed by waves of guilt, battering my stomach like a horned animal. I'd never felt so strongly nor devoted so much agonizing thought to a person as I had this man whom, a few weeks earlier, had been a mere stranger. It was only when I reached a mature age that I could finally give shape to what I was feeling at the time. I resented him for introducing to me his own private dread, his bleak, cynical, paranoid outlook on the world. At that young age I would've listened to anybody and let myself be caught in their tumult. Willoughby had no qualms about relieving unto me his entire tortured, damaged, labyrinthine soul. I could've told you anything about him at the time, his views on the universe, his attitude to love, his observations on the mating rituals of flamingos, and yet, he wouldn't of been able to tell you one thing about me. But, at the time, this did not matter to me. I thought it would've been self-indulgent of me to want to be seen and heard. So I repressed it with all my might, and loathed myself till any inward thought wilted and died. 

But, as I spent my final night in Bondsbury before planning to return to the convent I'd left in such a hurry just a few years before, I heard a quiet rustling sound emanating from the garden. I ignored it at first, but after a few minutes, I started to hear a voice. I felt numb with fear, Willoughby was right! There was an intruder in my back garden! How could I ever have doubted him? The man who knew everything, had felt everything, had acquainted himself with every creature on God's Earth, who had accrued wisdom in his lifetime most men accrue in seventy. How could I have doubted this prophet? This sage? This cosmic traveler?

I meekly made my way to the window and gently pulled back the curtain. I needed to get a peak of who this intruder was, I was expecting to see an unsavoury looking gentleman with a camera. Those days, my child, cameras were big, cumbersome things, so it would've been difficult for this intruder to remain incognito. 

I poked my head around the curtain, adrenaline surging, hands sweating with fright, I looked out the window to see... Willoughby. 

The man who had tormented me so stood there, his back to me, I couldn't see his face, yet I knew full well it was Willoughby. He then slowly turned around, it was a windy February night so his hair and suit were blowing about his person, making his silhouette rather Gothic and terrifying, his outline was illuminated by a street lamp in the church yard across the road directly behind him, giving him an ethereal, ghostly visage. He turned and looked directly at me, I was frozen with fear, he fixed a stare on me for what seemed like an eternity. I could not run, I was rooted to the spot,  waiting for something, anything, to happen.

He then shouted to me at the top of his voice, "Save yourself, principessa! Saaaaaave yourself! Then just as he was about to walk towards the window, a gentleman encroached on him from behind and plunged a dagger into his back. Willoughby reacted as if it were a mere slap, turning around to jostle with his attacker. The two wrestled each other to the ground ferociously, I stood there, my heart beating frantically, all I could do was watch this terrible situation unfold from my bedroom window. The shrouded figure again went to plunge his knife into Willoughby's back, but this time Willoughby caught it.. turned his opponents hand around and plunged the knife into his heart. They both collapsed to the floor, and Willoughby looked down on his fallen foe, his head in his lap, and said "back to Florence with you, my dearest Lorenzo, "Arabella e i figli aspettano, ti chiamano per nome, va', confessa i tuoi peccati a padre Giacomo e purifica la tua anima dal peccato!" 

Willoughby then looked up at me and said "you're safe now, little one". They then vanished into thin air, never to be seen again. 

What happened that day will stay with me forever, my child. I emerged from it a wiser being, able to weather any tumultuous storm that came my way. I knew Willoughby possessed a sort of cosmic grudge and that's what brought him to Bondsbury, where he happened to meet me, his purpose was not just to save me, he had his own motives, yet, perhaps he did save me, in a confusing, nebulous sort of way. All I really know is I loved him, I think. I loved him as a stranger, and we should love strangers, my child. Strangers usually don't come too near us, though perhaps this is a blessing. To know a stranger without ever entering their tumult, or to never heap your own private tumult unto them, to help them more fully realise themselves and vice versa, is the most selfless, joyful thing one could possibly do as a human being, as a social creature. The world is richly-peopled, my child! Go forth and meet a kindred spirit!

So, your situation with this bald fellow in a white gown playing a tiny guitar on your front lawn. Goodness, what a predicament! Well, oh, Good heavens, no! I was listening to the radio recently and heard incidents like this are happening all over Scotland! People are being enslaved in a gruesome blood cult. That gentleman is going to come into your house! Run, my child, run! Oh dear, well, in the time it took for you to send your letter, then read my response, you're probably already on your way to the re-education farm. I'm ever so sorry, my child. But, look on the bright side, you'll have the opportunity to meet many wonderful strangers!

Yours,

Eileen

 

Putin's Table Antics a Mixture of Feng Shui and the KonMari Method

Russian President and international pariah Vladimir Putin has received considerable press coverage in the last week. A lot of the coverage is down to his decision to invade neighbouring Ukraine, a move which has caused international condemnation and a staggering array of economic sanctions aimed at crippling the Russian economy. But a lot of attention has also been paid to the former KGB officer's table meetings with various foreign leaders, including Emmanuel Macron and Olaf Scholz. 

The pictures released show President Putin at the head of an approximately 8 metres long table, with his guest at the other end. The images have been widely lampooned by various satirical outlets, but several analysts who know Mr Putin intimately have suggested there may be another reason for this eccentric setting. 

Sergei Shukmeyov, a childhood friend and spiritual advisor to Mr Putin, told NNNN that the President has a keen interest in feng shui, which, according to Wikipedia is an 'ancient Chinese traditional practice which claims to use energy forces to harmonize individuals with their surrounding environment'. 

"Vladders is super into that kind of stuff. Sorry, we call him Vladders, shouldn't really let that little tidbit out, might have me killed! Ha ha, oh, but it's alright, it's fine, it's fine. I'm fine"

Shukmeyov introduced the future president to feng shui back when the two were attending Sambo classes back in the 1970s. Sambo, an offense-based martial art which originated in Russia, is a particularly grueling martial art to learn, so Shukmeyov was eager to befriend at least one other class member to feel less isolated. 

"It was five 3 hour sessions a week in this same bleak, colourless military basement in Leningrad, things were so very intense, one could feel very alone, very isolated. I needed to make some sort of connection with someone, I tried befriending a large gentleman named Yuri by patting him on the back and complimenting him on how much sweat his pectoral muscles could produce, but this just made things awkward between us and nothing really blossomed from there."

After a few months of failing in his attempts to spark a connection with someone, Shukmeyov finally met Putin, then in his early 20s. 

"He came out of nowhere, like a nuclear warhead designed by Randy Orton. I remember thinking "Who is this shy, almost alien-like guy? And what's he doing in a class like this? Perhaps he meant to attend the samba class next door, this was a common mistake, one which lead to many babushkas seeking out a new hobby instead becoming hardened killers."

"I struck up a conversation with him and we quickly built up a rapport. I guessed right from the start that he was a Libra and I wasn't wrong! It was pretty darn obvious, he's, like, super Libra, in everything he does."

Shukmeyov and Putin shared common interests including of course martial arts, but also fishing, Russian history, bears, chest hair and meticulously thought-out 50-year life goals. 

"I thought he had the aura of a man who's always 700 steps ahead of you. Like an older brother who knows all the cheat codes on a video game but is too smug to tell his younger brother because he likes knowing something he doesn't."

The Russian president first read about feng shui when his housekeeper Olga moved his desk a few inches in early 2014, which gave him the spiritual energy and positivity needed to annex Crimea. He reached out to Shukmeyov, who'd by then become a homeless recluse, to become his spiritual advisor.

"I went from lying on the streets of Kazan to sitting in a diamond-encrusted bed-chamber in Putin's private quarters. I occupied the room next to his so that I could be close at hand in case he had a spiritual breakdown. You would not believe how many nuclear wars i've prevented. He can be such a diva! Goodness, I really shouldn't be saying this, he will have me castrated! But it's fine, it's fine, it's fine, i'm fine".

One of Shukmeyov's many responsibilities was to suggest books for the president to read, these included works by Tony Robbins, Elizabeth Gilbert, Deepak Chopra & Hillary Clinton. Shukmeyov believes Putin interfered in the 2016 US presidential election not because he wanted Trump to win, but because he thought the presidency would be bad for Hillary, who he has a private affinity with. 

"You won’t see it written in the newspapers, but Vlad is very much seen as a ‘Mother Goose’ among world leaders. He’s constantly giving support to leaders of all political persuasions, from Evo Morales to Viktor Orban. He keeps at least 100 copies of Michelle Obama’s ‘Becoming’ in the boot of his favourite tank in case he needs to send it to a struggling demagogue.”

Putin reportedly became obsessed with the methods of Japanese organising consultant Marie Kondo upon seeing her acclaimed Netflix series ‘Tidying up With Marie Kondo’. Kondo’s method, known as the ‘KonMari Method’, involves gathering all of one’s belongings and keeping only the things that ‘spark joy’. 

Shukmeyov noticed a seismic change in Putin’s living habits and worldview. “His palace used to be cluttered with all sorts of stuff, vases, ornamental milk dishes, taxidermied cobras, naked cossack erotica. I once tripped over and destroyed Nikita Khrushchev’s life mask and blamed it on Alexander Litvinenko, goodness knows what Vlad would do if he found out that was me, but it’s ok, i’m fine, i’m fine, i’m fine, i’m fine.”

Objects around Putin’s residence started to frequently move around and also disappear. “The space started to become less cluttered and far more organised, it was like a brilliant miracle at first because i’d been hassling him to sort it all out for years. But then all the constant rearranging of the furniture, the paintings, even the doors and air vents, started to frustrate me and the servants.”

Servants and cleaners familiar with certain doorways started to open doors and fall into a vast white vacuum due to Putin’s obsessive rearranging. 

“We even had a foreign dignitary from Georgia wake up in the morning and roll out of bed to find there was no floor. He’s still suspended in an infinite nothingness.”

Shukmeyov worries Putin’s obsession with rearranging will have dire consequences for the geopolitical complexion of the planet. “First it was South Ossetia, then Crimea, now Ukraine. He has these gut instincts that certain things should be organised in a certain way to alleviate stress and de-clutter his soul. Unfortunately, whereas most of us would simply move a footstall, or a bin in our living rooms, for a world leader like Vlad, that means annexing and invading territory, getting rid of people he doesn’t like and re-drawing maps to suite his most urgent spiritual needs, you couldn’t write this shit. It’s fucked up, man, we’re all going to shit, but it’s fine, i’m fine, i’m fine, i’m fine, i’m fine, i’m fine. I’m not fine. Help me. 

News, News, News, News, DINES! DINES! DINES! DINES! With AA Gill Jr.: 'Let's Go F*cking Lentil', Bermondsey, London

My father would have blew his lid and scolded me with an iron if i'd told him i'd been to a vegetarian restaurant. The man was a consummate meat-eater, trips to the zoo would always involve him methodically going round all the enclosures with a notebook trying to scout new animal meats for major gourmet restaurants. He'd always manage to smuggle at least 10 Humboldt penguins into his Jaguar, most of my childhood was spent secretly trying to usher the poor buggers out of the house to save them from the chop. I don't have the gall to compare myself to Harriet Tubman, Oscar Schindler or those men who saved priceless art from being destroyed by the Nazis in WW2, but I'm basically all those people, and Steven Spielberg would cream his pantaloons if he heard my story. 

So, here's another restaurant: 'Let's Go F*cking Lentil' in Bermondsey, London, founded by two ex-football hooligans and Millwall supporters, Mark White and Melvin 'Mad Dog' Collins. The two were handed life-long stadium bans for a number of offences which included blinding an opposition goalkeeper by flying a drone with a sparkler attached to it into his face in a Carabao Cup tie, and smashing the windshield of what they thought was the Millwall owner's car, but turned out to belong to the club's beloved dinner lady, Maeve, who was so distraught by the incident, she went mad and poisoned the entire men's team by dousing their macaroni cheese with ear medicine.  

Remember, this series is based around a study conducted at the University of Cockfosters, Berkeley which found that food becomes more flavoursome when ear-splitting music is played at an obscenely high volume in a restaurant. I last visited 'Pasta Sottovoce' in Cromer, Norfolk, and have only just regained my ability to hear, speak and walk without stumbling over. The blood on my pillows has just about dried, the flashbacks are becoming less frequent, so.. yeah, ready for another one, i'd say. 

Let's Go F*cking Lentil, Bermondsey, London

I ALMOST COULDN'T ENTER 'LET'S GO FUCKING LENTIL', A RELATIVELY NEW GAFFE IN BERMONDSEY, I WALKED THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR AND WAS IMMEDIATELY FLOORED BY THE THUNDEROUSLY LOUD MUSIC THEY HAD PREPARED FOR ME. 'BARBED-WIRE TRACHEA BLUES' BY THE NIPTWISTER SISTERS FT. WILL YOUNG WAS THE SONG I WAS SUBJECTED TO.  

I ATTEMPTED TO LEAVE, BUT MARK WHITE AND MELVIN 'MAD DOG' COLLINS, THE OWNERS OF THE RESTAURANT, CAME OUT, GRABBED ME BY THE LAPEL, AND DRAGGED ME UNWILLINGLY TO MY SEAT. "WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING, SUNSHINE? WHITE ASKED ME. THE FACT THAT I COULD HEAR HIS VOICE OVER THE MUSIC PLAYING OVERHEAD IS A TESTAMENT TO THE STRENGTH OF THESE MEN'S VOICES, FINELY-TUNED BY YEARS OF SCREAMING ON THE TERRACES AT MATCHES. 

"I'M SORRY DAD... MARK, I'M SORRY, MARK!" I SCREAMED. IT WAS A TERRIFYING PREDICAMENT, I WAS FULLY PREPARED TO FACE THE MUSIC AGAIN, BUT AS SOON AS I WALKED IN, I HAD THE MOST DREADFUL FLASHBACKS, NOT ONLY TO 'PASTA SOTTOVOCE', BUT ALSO TO MY CHILDHOOD, FATHER USED TO RANDOMLY QUIZ ME ON HIS MOST FAMOUS RESTAURANT REVIEWS OUT OF THE BLUE, AND IF I GOT ONE WORD WRONG, HE'D HOLD MY HEAD IN A BUCKET OF WATER FOR 40 SECONDS. 

"SIT DOWN, SHUT UP AND ORDER SOME FOOD!" CRIED THE 'MAD DOG', WHO GAINED HIS NICKNAME FROM BITING OFF MARK NOBLE'S NOSE IN A DERBY MATCH AGAINST WEST HAM UNITED. "YOUR LITTLE REVIEW IN NNNN IS GOING TO GIVE US A LOT OF PUBLICITY, SO YOU BETTER FUCKIN' GET IT RIGHT, THE WORDS BETTER FUCKIN' SING FROM THE PAGE LIKE A MASTERFUL PIANO CONCERTO." I TOLD HIM I'D DO MY BEST AND ORDERED THEIR FAMED LENTIL SALAD. I THEN WAITED FOR A GOOD HALF AN HOUR, ALL THE WHILE BEING STARED AT BY NIKOLAI, A RUSSIAN EMPLOYEE AT THE RESTAURANT, WHOSE JOB IT IS TO EXTORT GUSHING TRIPADVISOR REVIEWS FROM CUSTOMERS ON THEIR WAY OUT. 

"HERE'S YOUR LENTIL SALAD, YOU SLAAAAG!" THE SALAD LOOKED APPETISING ENOUGH, THE LEAVES WERE AVERAGE-SIZED, SLIGHTLY MOIST, LOOKED GREEN. I.. I CAN'T DO THIS! I HATE RESTAURANTS! WHY AM I REVIEWING IT? I WOULDN'T KNOW THE FIRST THING ABOUT SALADS, ALTHOUGH I'M SURE THEY'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO HAVE AN EYEBALL MIXED IN WITH THE COLESLAW AS IS THE CASE WITH THIS ONE. "YOU KNOW WHO THAT EYEBALL BELONGS TO, SUNSHINE? IT BELONGS TO A LITTLE CUNTY JOURNO WEASEL WHO HAD THE GALL TO RAT ON US TO THE PIGS, SO YOUR WRITING BETTER TURN WATER INTO WINE, OR ELSE WE'LL FEED YOUR EYEBALLS TO THE DOGS". I TOOK COLLINS' WORDS SERIOUSLY, MAINLY BECAUSE HE CHOSE TO INCLUDE FOUR ANIMALS IN HIS THREAT, AND THAT REMINDED ME OF FATHER AND MY ATTEMPTS TO STOP HIS MINDLESS CRUELTY. I ONCE WANDERED INTO HIS STUDY AND OPENED UP A BAG HE HAD ON HIS DESK TO FIND A BUNCH OF EURASIAN PYGMY SHREWS. HIS LAPTOP WAS ALSO OPEN ON A YOUTUBE VIDEO EXPLAINING HOW TO COOK EURASIAN PYGMY SHREWS. I TOOK THE BAG, RAN INTO THE WOODS AND RELEASED THEM. WHEN I GOT BACK, FATHER INTRODUCED ME TO A FIVE-STAR US ARMY GENERAL WHO SUBJECTED ME TO CHINESE WATER TORTURE WHILST FATHER READ OUT HIS REVIEW OF MIKE LEIGH'S NEW FILM TOPSY-TURVY. 

I RELUCTANTLY CONTINUED TO SPOON THE WATERY SALAD INTO MY TREMBLING MOUTH, PIECES OF BEETROOT SLIDING DOWN MY GULLET LIKE A DEAD CHILD'S CORPSE DOWN A LOG FLUME. 

"OI, MELV! ARE THE 'WALL PLAYING TODAY? PUT EM' ON, WILL YA?" MELVIN SWITCHED ON THE TV IN THE CORNER OF THE ROOM, MILLWALL WERE PLAYING LEEDS UNITED, THEIR HISTORIC RIVALS, MAYBE THIS COULD DISTRACT THESE TWO HOOLIGANS AND I COULD SLIP AWAY. I COULD HAIL A TAXI TO THE AIRPORT, BOARD A FLIGHT TO MALLORCA AND NEVER COME BACK, NEVER LOOK BACK. I COULD GO TO RESTAURANTS MY FATHER NEVER REVIEWED, I COULD SEE ANIMALS HE NEVER COOKED, I COULD ESCAPE HIS ERUDITE, PROVOCATIVE SHADOW AND UNSHACKLE MYSELF FROM THE  SUBTLE TYRANNY OF HIS DEVILISH WIT. 

I WAITED FOR A MOMENT OF DRAMA IN THE MATCH. SOMEHOW I COULD STILL HEAR THE COMMENTATORS OVER THE RAPACIOUSLY LOUD MUSIC OVERHEAD, MILLWALL WERE ABOUT TO SCORE, I COULD HEAR WHITE AND 'MAD DOG' BUILDING TO A JUBILANT EJACULATION, "GO ON, GO ON, GO ON! OH FUCK! FUCK! AAAH, COME ON, MY SON! FUCKING STICK IT IN, STICK IT IN, MY SON! GO ON!" AND STICK IT IN THEY DID, THE PAIR ROARED AND EMBRACED EACH OTHER, ALMOST WRESTLING EACH OTHER WITH JOY. AT THAT MOMENT I ATTEMPTED TO SLIP AWAY, NOW WAS MY CHANCE, I STAGGERED TO THE DOOR, OPENED IT, WALKED OUTSIDE INTO THE BLISSFUL BERMONDSEY SUN, THEN FELT A LARGE HAND GRIP MY SHOULDER FROM BEHIND.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MR. JOURNALIST?" IT WAS NIKOLAI, THEIR ENFORCER. "YOU SIT AND WRITE GOOD WORDS ABOUT THIS EAT-HOUSE, YOU MAKE US LOTS OF POUNDS". I WAS DOOMED, THERE WAS NO WAY OUT. NIKOLAI WAS AN UNMOVABLE OBJECT, DETERMINED TO DO RIGHT BY HIS EMPLOYERS. 

I SAT DOWN AGAIN, BLOOD POURING FROM MY EARS AND STARTING TO HALLUCINATE CHARLIE CHAPLIN-LIKE FIGURES CLAWING THEIR FACES OFF. I ATTEMPTED TO FINISH THE MEAL BUT BLACKED OUT BEFORE I COULD.

AS I WOKE UP I FOUND MYSELF IN THE DRIVERS SEAT OF A VAN.. WHERE WAS I? WHAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED? WHAT FRESH HELL IS WAITING FOR ME AT THE END OF THIS JOURNEY? WHO WAS SITTING NEXT TO ME DRIVING THE VAN? I LOOKED TO MY RIGHT, EXPECTING TO SEE MELVIN 'MAD DOG' COLLINS GRINNING AT ME WITH VIOLENT GLEE, BUT ALAS, IT WAS MARK NOBLE, WEST HAM CAPTAIN AND MORTAL ENEMY OF THE TWO VILLAINS. "SEE THAT THERE?" HE POINTED TO A LITTLE SNOW GLOBE ON HIS DASHBOARD WITH WHAT LOOKED LIKE A SEVERED NOSE WITHIN, "THIS IS WHAT THEY TOOK FROM ME, BUT I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE, CLEARLY"

"WHAT HAPPENED, MR NOBLE?"

"I HAPPENED, MY FRIEND, I HAPPENED", HE GESTURED TOWARDS A CAN OF PROPANE ON THE BACK SEAT. "YOU.. YOU BURNT IT DOWN?"

"HA HA! SQUEAKY CLEAN WEST HAM UNITED CAPTAIN MARK NOBLE BURNING DOWN A RESTAURANT? HOW LUDICROUS! WINK WINK"

"YOU SAVED MY LIFE, MARK." 

"IT'S WHAT I DO, KID, IT'S WHAT I DO. NOW, YOU WERE SAYING SOMETHING ABOUT MALLORCA?"

"OH, I DON'T THINK SO"

"YES, YOU DID, IN YOUR SLEEP, YOU MUTTERED SOME STUFF ABOUT YOUR FATHER AND EURASIAN PYGMY SHREWS, THEN ABOUT MALLORCA."

"OH, WELL, YES, I WISH TO ESCAPE ABROAD, LIFE IS NOT TREATING ME WELL OVER HERE."

"WELL, ASK YOURSELF, KID, IS LIFE NOT TREATING YOU WELL, OR ARE YOU NOT TREATING LIFE WELL?"

"I THINK DEFINITELY LIFE IS NOT TREATING ME WELL."

"WELL, KID, THEN PERHAPS YOU SHOULD GO TO MALLORCA."

"THANKS, MARK NOBLE, YOU SAVED MY LIFE. HOW CAN I EVER REPAY YOU?"

"WELL THERE'S A FEW MORE VENUES BELONGING TO OLD GRUDGES I'D LIKE TO BLOW UP, YOUR HELP WOULD BE VERY MUCH APPRECIATED".

"OH, WELL WHAT OTHER VENUES?"

"OH, WE'LL GET TO THAT, LET'S JUST SAY I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF PLAYING IN A FISH BOWL".