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The Criminal Conquests Of The Queen Mum


Rhoda

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It was a day that rocked the UK at least, if not the rest of the working world. On 30 March 2002, Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, Queen Mother, died peacefully in her sleep. Britons everywhere dropped their monocles in their tea, hit their croquet balls into a bush with shock and generally bowed their heads in respect. Even the vandalising scrotum sacks scrawling their names on the bus stop... well, okay, not quite. This is the story of how a woman that lived through two world wars avenged her family and country by solving the rising problems of Britain, one way or another... the Ghost of the Queen Mum.

 

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Introduction: The Royal Eye

 

Summer 2008. Cold as ever, and the smell of sweaty children leaving the school yard for a wholesome 7 weeks of drinking, smoking and playing video games was in the air, almost masking the smell of freshly cut grass and melted tarmac. Only the children were happy though, they weren't living in constant fear of debt, identity fraud and the fact that 2008 was already half way gone. Half way gone!

It was safe to say that the politics affair had gone down the toilet. Gordon Brown wasn't handling being a Prime Minister very well at all, and after being held responsible for the "misplacement" of millions of citizen's private data and the overlooking of the terrorist attack on Big Ben, it was clear that the public weren't taking too much of a shine to him at all. Still, he was better than Tony Blair at this point...

Gang culture, binge drinking, underage smoking, drugs... everything was on the rise. Not one person could stop it, nor could raising the age for smoking and drinking up to 21. Kids were flocking around corner shops like flies to crap, waiting hours at a time for their fix of fags and cheap import vodka. Britain had hit a low point. Saying that, there was one thing related to the UK that was high. Very high indeed. Higher than long haul flights, higher than the price of petrol, higher than a 14 year old stoner toking away in the school playground... and this something was royal, through and through. This thing was a person, and had been watching the UK for 6 years. This person was none other than The Queen Mum.

 

Chapter I: Her Royal Ghostliness

 

Elizabeth was not a happy royal at all. For 6 years she had watched Britain slide further and further down the scale. What this scale was, she didn't know, but it didn't even matter. It was clear; Britain was flat-lining, and no matter how loved she may had been, she couldn't do a thing about it.

She wasn't one for asking for much mind you, she didn't like to be waited on hand and foot. In fact, up until her death she did all her own washing and hoovering, snapping her fingers to the beat of songs by the Happy Mondays and Morrissey. She even phoned the takeaway herself, ordering her usual spicy beef kebab with garlic mayonnaise. She was a woman of substance.

As she sat there on her reserved cloud, feet dangling over the edge, she realised that something needed to be done and fast. The government clearly wasn't helping matters, and the royals seemed to be oblivious.

"Not like the good old days" she mused to herself, taking a drag out of her pipe and lying down on her cloud. "Everyone got a beating, and if they didn't like it, tough!".

She sat bolt upright again when she heard the argument between an elderly man and a teenage deliquent, who had just thrown a half full bottle of cheap cider at his car. Elizabeth sighed deeply and got up. Gathering her cane, she marched up the golden stairs that lead to God's office.

 

As she walked in, she was almost blinded by the bright, 5000 watt bulbs keeping the long hallway illuminated. At the very end of this corridor, a woman in here earlier 60's tapped away on a Mac G5, recording prayers sent by e-mail and playing solitaire.

"Is... erm... Mr... no... Lord available for a word, please?" Elizabeth quietly, but confidently, said to the distracted secretary.

"Oh, I'm afraid not, he has a guitar lesson with Jimi Hendrix at the moment, he just can't get to grips with the A chord."

"Oh dear, well..." The Queen Mum thought for a moment, and then finally replied, "will you please let me know when he is available? It's rather urgent you see."

"Will do, doll". The secretary smiled.

The Queen Mum smiled back, and was about to leave, when Jimi Hendrix thundered out of God's office.

"I can't teach you sh*t, man!" he yelled. "I'm sorry, but your fingers are just too damn big for a Strat. You'll have to learn on a Gibson, my man."

"I don't have the money for a Gibson!" retorted God, flicking his long, white hair behind him.

"Well, sorry man. Guitars aren't for you... drums maybe?"

"I'll think about it. See you tomorrow Jimi."

"Bye Lord."

As Jimi Hendrix strut down the hallway, Queen Mum spoke up.

"Excuse me, God?"

"Oh, hello there Your Majesty!" he welcomed her warmly. "With what do I have the pleasure of seeing your face this morning? Please, step into my office."

As she did so, the smell of pine filled her nostrils. Not bad considering a man who had smoked enough pot in his lifetime to get 6 billion bull elephants stoned had just been in there. God sat down gingerly in his chair and indicated for Elizabeth to do the same. A pot of tea was whisked in by the secretary and God took a cup.

"Tea?" he inquired.

"Erm, no thank you, I hope this meeting will be abrupt."

"Oh? What's the problem?" he said, sipping his tea.

"Well... have you seen the UK recently?"

"Not since Eurovision '05..." he admitted, shame plastered on his face. "What's happened since?"

"It's failing, Lord, and has been for a good while."

God drained his cup and thought for a moment.

"I do admit, I have been aware of the state of the UK for a while now. I always assumed that it was... I don't know... just a phase."

God looked crestfallen as he said so, and poured himself some tea.

"I'd like to go back."

God nearly emptied his cups worth on his own lap.

"Go back!?" he spluttered? "It's not possible... unless..."

The Queen Mum sat up slowly. "Unless what, Lord?"

"Uh... nothing. No, forget it". He tried badly to cover his statement up, all the while concentrating on drying his wet robes.

"Please, I must help save my country... only I can do it, I am no mortal woman, with your help we can help turn Britain into a country people can be proud to live in."

God suddenly stood up and looked out of his window at the bountiful and never ending beautiful blue skies ahead of him. He stood there for a long time, breathing deeply as he did so. At long last, he turned round slowly and walked over to her.

"You do realize... that this is a risky process. If done incorrectly, you cannot return, and face an eternity in Purgatory.

"Oh, that's quite alright. I've visited there many times, Lord. Lovely weather and culture." she grinned.

"No, that was Paraguay..."

"Oh. I do apologize." the Queen Mum went crimson.

"Let's just say, if it all goes wrong, you cannot return." God sat down once more and put his hands together in front of him.

A lone tear crawled down Elizabeth's cheek, and when it had hit the shiny marble floor of God's office, she looked up.

"I'll do it. I'll risk everything to put my country right."

As the Queen Mum stood up defiantly, God simply smiled and stood up too, a little more imposing. Standing at an impressive 14 feet tall, he dwarfed the Queen Mum. He slowly clasped his hands together, and shut his eyes. All of a sudden, lightning and blue sparks exploded in through every orifice. The window, the cracks of the door, even the teapot, which shorty shattered into a thousand pieces.

"I hereby send you back to Earth, Elizabeth Angela Marguerite Bowes-Lyon, to aid the UK and rid it of it's trouble, and you shall only be able to return when your mission has been fulfilled!" God bellowed hard, long hair blowing frantically behind him.

Elizabeth cowered, and let out a wimper. She daren't open her eyes, and only dared to do so when God's piercing scream left only a ringing in her ears. When she did so, her false teeth nearly fell out.

 

She was floating above the London Eye, which was spinning oblivious to the fact the ghost of the former Queen was suspended 200 feet above it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

C & C welcome. icon14.gif

Edited by Masterkraft
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I...wow. That was... different. Yet good at the same time! An original piece with welcome touches of humour- Hendrix, God being 14 feet tall, the British stereotyping in the first paragraph. I really hope you continue with this.
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I'm glad you liked it. I strive to write something completely different, so I'm glad you picked that up. smile.gif Second chapter will be up sometime in the next few days with any luck.

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Same, but that's where the humour is: laughing at yourself. Course, when I say "yourself", I mean others, and when I say "laughing", I mean invade.

 

Chapter 2 will be here by the end of the week chaps.

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Relatively short chapter this week, had a bit of trouble at home so I've been quite limited in my production. I apologise now if it isn't up to standard. Do enjoy it though, and leave me feedback, comments and criticism please. It'd mean a lot.

 

Oh yeah, and there's a tad bit more swearing from now on.

 

 

Chapter II: Apples And Pears, And Various Other Fruits

 

"What a state London is!" muttered Elizabeth as she trot along the South Bank.

Summer hadn't been kind to the depths of London. Litter, including fast food cartons and copies of Chantelle's autobiography, scattered the floor around the water's edge. The Queen Mum felt a flutter of panic as a greasy haired skateboarder flew right through her, causing him to nearly fall into the murky depths of the Thames, wondering where that sudden burst of cold air (that smelt like Murray Mints and gin, no less) came from. As the Queen Mum gawped at the current state of London, she realised it hadn't actually changed, and that she wasn't a Queen Of The Streets; spending much of her time indoors had meant she hadn't seen London's streets properly.

"H'oi, granny!" came a thuggish voice, out of the blue.

Queen Mum froze, thinking she'd been rumbled by a delinquent, but as she spun round, she saw that the comment had been aimed at another elderly woman, having a spot of bother with a gang of youths.

"Giz' yer' bag, now!" yells another, so hard in fact, the elderly woman's hair flew behind her in a hail of tobacco breath and saliva.

"No, I shan't." the defiant woman replied, nowhere near as loud as her attackers, "You lot need a bloody good clip round the ears!"

"Ooooh, I'm fackin' scared, me!" another guffaws, and lunges for her bag.

Queen Mum looked on in disbelief at the state of the streets, as not one passer by helped. They simply became very interested in their own shoes and marched on. This was one of the only things in her long and eventful life that angered her, so she slowly floated toward the gang, waving her hand in front of their faces to make sure she wasn't tripping off Jimi Hendrix's fumes.

"Oooh, a purse! That's all I fackin' want, 'innit lads!?" the leader shouted, with others murmurs of approval and mirth following his own.

Queen Mum stuck a hand through the main offender's neck and waved it back and forth.

"Fack me, it's cold nahw, 'innit?" he muttered as he rummaged through the OAP's purse, which contained only her pet's food budget. He took no notice of neither the cold, nor the amount in the purse, so Queen Mum felt drastic measures were in order! She forcefully grabbed the edge of his tracksuit bottoms and yanked down hard, which shocked him so much he tumbled, dropping the purse.

"What the fack?" he cried, flabbergasted "Mickey, you dozy c*nt, grab the purse!"

Queenie was too quick, and within seconds, every single one of them were stood in the middle of South Bank, pantless.

"sh*t, this place ain't safe, I'm off!" and with the leader gone, the rest of the back bottled too, dropping their cans of spray paint.

The OAP said nothing, and shaking like a leaf, gathered her belongings and scarpered just as fast as her attackers. Queen Mum simply smiled at her effective good deed and took one of the cans of spray paint. Approaching the wall, she wrote as best she could:

 

QUEEN MUM HAS RETURNED. ANY YOUTH CAUGHT PERFORMING ANY ILLEGAL AND ABUSIVE BEHAVIOUR WILL BE DEALT WITH... PERSONALLY.

 

QM.

 

"That should deter the hooligans!" she chuckled, throwing the can in the bin.

 

---

 

Later on that day, Queen Mum sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square, running her mission through her royal head.

"Dear me, what a task." she pondered. "If I'm to tackle this problem quickly, I shall have to deal with the root of the problem..."

As a pigeon walked across the bench, it trot right through her to repeatedly peck a cigarette butt which Queen Mum had inadvertently "sat" on. She watched as it pecked, then pecked again, and finally clasped it in it's beak as it took off to perch on the statue ahead. All of a sudden, a piercing scream ran out through the square. Queen Mum instantly rose in the air, ready for action, when she spotted a pram slowly rolling roughly down a set of stairs leading away from South Africa House!

Quick as a flash, she flew over and startled a nearby fruit vendor with her cold trails, resulting in him dropping his entire fruit stand. Apples and oranges were everywhere.

"Good, a distaction!" she cackled and ascended the stairway.

The baby in the pram had now realised they were in trouble, and began to cry softly, but not before Queen Mum lifted the small bundle out of the pram and rose once more away from the stairway. The crowd below could not decide which was more shocking; a pile of squashed fruit at their feet or a flying baby. Slowly and gently, Queen Mum placed the small child in their mother's arms. Having enjoyed the flight, the baby giggled and clapped at the small crash the pram made when it collided with several punnets of fruit. Not long after the accident, people started to resume their lives in busy London as if nothing happened; a common trait in England. As they walked on, they completely unaware that a guardian angel in the form of a former Queen was watching them all from the roof of the National Gallery...

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Another entertaining chapter, Masterkraft. I liked the bit about Chantelle's autobiography at the beginning. The only drawback I can see is that non-UK readers will have no idea about a lot of the description! ("Chantelle? Who's Chantelle?") Keep it coming.
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I suppose I intended this to be a story that the UK would identify with, but I could have it both ways so people outside of the UK who read this won't feel clueless. I'll bear that in mind, thanks Chickstick. icon14.gif

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