Thinking about it, Kludge klearly kares less than yer average monkey hanger.

A President Zee Of West Anglia, he kan handle another week o' kat krap if he hasta. But six more months' of kant kan't be good for K's karmas. Half a year of pre-koronation chicken shit. Really Vlado?

And the spellcheck?...

Bin chucked out of the Overton window so many times. Along with dissenters, non-normatives and other reasonable views on the maniacal monarchical matrix of mental enslavement and jug-earred aristo's on a cosplay power trip of stately British mind kontrol.

Doff cap, lackey. And Posh On chaps.

King Kong Kim never caused this much grief. Least the self-evidently brainwashed North Koreans preserve some semblance of self awareness and dignity. They all know the dead body in the box has no special powers, and more importantly they also know that to let on would be fatal.

Rule by the dead. Necrocracy. Kludge knows the feeling well.

As it is. He is at great pains to enjoy what's left of his Western privilege.

"Does my resistance look big in this?", mouths K to his folkloric companion piece… 

Lovingly, the mental elf eyes scaffolding and sharpens scythes and pitchforks. But remains outta sight. The searchlights of conformity dazzle. The mischievous imp lurks in the marginalia with the punctuation marks and the swear words ;*(&#&£(£&'llocks!

In the very present. The super ego is out on the streets openly imposing orthodoxy and pageantry amongst the inoculated Borg-like burghers of The Manor. Like Kludge, nearly all are born into fuck all. But one likes to gawp in beatific stupefaction at one's betters, doesn't one? Like Harry Potter without popcorn, but more magical in its thinking. Wizard! What ho!

It is 1522 anno domino pizza gate. And to politely suggest otherwise is ill advised. To indelicately enquire as to the actual electability of the hereby aforesaid preordained dead old lady man queen replacement, The Third. On one's way back from one's church, ina middle Inglan is a bitch, afore bein' klapped in kuffs n' karted off to the Kop Shop. Only to be unkuffed, unincarcerated and show trialled across subsequent mainstream media. A naughty anti hero from the far reaches of the outer perimeter of permissible neo-liberal thought crime.  How Very Bee Bee Sea! Not really really that left wing at all, at all, at all eh Dorris eh???

In spite of all the question marks. Now is precisely the moment to embrace the Anarchy. FUCK! If u don't flex em, they wither away. Balls, muscles, rights. All wrong. There is, however, the small matter of momentum.

Fact is. There's no holding back the tsunami of nonentities, no marks and nob heads unleashed by the rightist vanguard, adrenalinised by the prospect of mainlining vicarious vainglory to fill the vapid vacuum of hollow inauthentic self-enslavement. As the Lord Provost knows, one can never find a well-organised, highly trained battalion of lethal Roundhead assassins when one needs one. 

Even muslamic rayguns wouldn't stem this tide for long.

Flanked by state sponsored snipers, there are ocean currents of consent sweeping all before. Kludge grabs a lamppost and plots his way away from the mindless mob. There is an overlong sentence coming. K khan feel a surge.

They are the actualised cried tears of 44% of the public who felt moved to weep. The nation is awash with lachrymose nationalists and teary eyed anti republicanism. One hears even Sir Kier shed a little tear for her dead maj in the best traditions of slavering thraldom and arse kissing. A swelled purple helmet. Of sycophants, obsequiants, serviles, self seeking sociopaths, brown nosers, boot suckers, rim lickers, bussers of bell ends, scummers of sequinned hand-picked cockwombles floods the Mall. To declare subjugation to those who emerged from an entitled cervix at the right time in the correct order in order to shake in white gloves, reside in huge castles, lounge in sumptuous palaces, feast on domesticated wild fowl and get ridden around in Range Rovers, stage coaches and pumpkins in the name of a lifelong service and its ever so onerous burden of responsibility.

Oi! hoi polloi! Do one! Or else… yes, naff orf oik!

Or get in line among the bourgeois bling, to share sharp shoulders, shooting sticks and hip flasks, and to rejoice heartily at the most orderly queue of toad eaters in Christendom to scream LORD GOD have mercy all claims are paid. Respectfully mind. No punk fiction aloud.

None of that No Future For You malarkey. Not now!

No Marxists, no mad mullahs, no militants, no loud mouthed, boorish mulletted antipodean left arm spinners, no stroppy scousers and antisocial strikers. All must be silenced. In the name of the status quo, you will remain quietened.

You will, you will, you will.

Kludge muses on the conspicuously absent and anarchical mental elf. 

As an emollient to the soul, K sticks his blue pill memory stick into the back of his pound shop speaker and blasts out an MP3 file currently unplayable in North Korea, much of Kent, Kannada and the Kommonwealth. An unofficial anti-national anthem to liberate a generation from mental fascism, H bomb moronity and mindbending uniformity. On eternal re-Mix mashup each day end before shipping forecasts send good li'll sheeple people sleepy byes...

God Save Our Gracious Thing
God Save Our Ennobled Thing
God Save The Thing….

nah nah nah NAH! Nah nah
Nah nah NAH nah nah ….Ad nauseam

In fact. Music has less agency than collective suicide.

Never mind, King Kurt. Here's the bollix with the big ears and the Goon Show records.

G'night, John Boy. Night night, Man Queen consortium.