Charles, not always the luckiest of names for a king but here is a right Charlie about to get a new posh hat.
King Charles the turd.
I’m thoroughly underwhelmed by the prospect but I couldn’t consider myself any sort of a diarist without mentioning it. I feel a little guilty that I am unable to follow my mother’s instruction ‘if you can’t think of something nice to say, say nothing.’
Let’s be honest, if I stuck to that rule I might never say anything.
Next weekend there’ll be another bank holiday. This time to ‘celebrate’ the latest in a long line of adulterers, thieves, murderers, usurpers, blow ins, blokes with bigger armies, and over indulged twats. One who apparently, even in this day and age, has a god given right to rule over us.
I snort.
GorJus and I have discussed the possibility of celebrating by watching the ceremony projected on a a sheet at the studio. We’ll invite friends to come and shout abuse without fear of arrest.
I no doubt will be my usual conflicted self when faced with some excellently produced pomp that I’ll love.
Anyhow here’s a picture of a King Charles spaniel. The only King Charles I have anytime for.
I’ll stick it on a tea towel if you like.
fat tart 