The news that Mr Becks will have to wait another six months before getting his knighthood brought a frown to my hairy face. It seems that Beefy Botham was ahead of him in the queue. My disappointment is keenly felt, although not for the footballer. It is his wife, Victoria Spice, for whom I grind my teeth in discontent. Apparently she had already bought a one-shoulder leopard dress for her visit to the palace. It must be especially frustrating for her servants, who were no doubt looking forward to addressing her as Lady Becks. A woman who can nurture three babies in the body of a choir boy and squeeze them out of an aperture resembling a dolphin’s blowhole is worthy of the deepest respect. She may look like a pouting pixie, but in spirit she is the Amazon who laughs in the face of physical torment.
Having already sired three sons, the Becks naturally wish to give their boys a baby sister to pamper. But in their eagerness to conceive a girl, they have resorted to the unnatural practice of mating in an upright position. Did you ever hear such an old wives’ tale?! How I wish that Victoria had consulted me before impaling herself on the Beckshaft. I would have approached the local witch doctor and sent her a crocodile’s tooth boiled in hen’s urine. If a woman puts one of those inside her cha-cha, her ova will be impenetrable to Y-chromosome sperm until the next full moon. If only humans would listen to a qualified physician before experimenting with all this superstitious nonsense.
Now a lot of people are disgusted at the prospect of Mr Becks being knighted. They recall an infamous incident in which he kicked an Argentine player and cost his team a vital match. In his defence, once should note that the Argentine player thoroughly deserved a good kicking. The mistake made by Mr Becks was to do it himself during the game rather than hiring some goons to gang up on the fellow outside the stadium. However one can’t expect a simple footballer to have mastered the works of Sun Tzu and show expertise in military strategy. It is surely time to let bygones be bygones and accept that Mr Becks has risked his ankles for his country, amassing a fortune worthy of a nobleman in doing so.
The idea of opening up the British honours system to sportsmen and celebrities was dreamt up by the outgoing prime minister – Mr Tony Bear, as we call him in the Congo. Personally, I think it was a stroke of genius. Honouring people with unfamiliar faces is an invitation to fraud. If you give a knighthood to Ted Noggins, what is to stop any cross-eyed potato picker from turning up at Buckingham Palace and claiming the gold medallion for himself? The Queen of England can’t be expected to memorise the face of every tedious non-entity who’s oiled his way onto the honours list.
The next logical step would be to award knighthoods to famous glove puppets as well. Basil Brush would come top of the list now that his kind are a protected species. He’d need a lecture on royal protocol, of course, as no one wants to hear backchat from a smart-mouthed fox when the Queen is handing out prizes. Sir Basil Brush would be an icon for our age – and a symbol of restitution for millions of weary foxes who’ve been chased to virtual exhaustion by innumerable fat-arsed knights of the shire.
Having already sired three sons, the Becks naturally wish to give their boys a baby sister to pamper. But in their eagerness to conceive a girl, they have resorted to the unnatural practice of mating in an upright position. Did you ever hear such an old wives’ tale?! How I wish that Victoria had consulted me before impaling herself on the Beckshaft. I would have approached the local witch doctor and sent her a crocodile’s tooth boiled in hen’s urine. If a woman puts one of those inside her cha-cha, her ova will be impenetrable to Y-chromosome sperm until the next full moon. If only humans would listen to a qualified physician before experimenting with all this superstitious nonsense.
Now a lot of people are disgusted at the prospect of Mr Becks being knighted. They recall an infamous incident in which he kicked an Argentine player and cost his team a vital match. In his defence, once should note that the Argentine player thoroughly deserved a good kicking. The mistake made by Mr Becks was to do it himself during the game rather than hiring some goons to gang up on the fellow outside the stadium. However one can’t expect a simple footballer to have mastered the works of Sun Tzu and show expertise in military strategy. It is surely time to let bygones be bygones and accept that Mr Becks has risked his ankles for his country, amassing a fortune worthy of a nobleman in doing so.
The idea of opening up the British honours system to sportsmen and celebrities was dreamt up by the outgoing prime minister – Mr Tony Bear, as we call him in the Congo. Personally, I think it was a stroke of genius. Honouring people with unfamiliar faces is an invitation to fraud. If you give a knighthood to Ted Noggins, what is to stop any cross-eyed potato picker from turning up at Buckingham Palace and claiming the gold medallion for himself? The Queen of England can’t be expected to memorise the face of every tedious non-entity who’s oiled his way onto the honours list.
The next logical step would be to award knighthoods to famous glove puppets as well. Basil Brush would come top of the list now that his kind are a protected species. He’d need a lecture on royal protocol, of course, as no one wants to hear backchat from a smart-mouthed fox when the Queen is handing out prizes. Sir Basil Brush would be an icon for our age – and a symbol of restitution for millions of weary foxes who’ve been chased to virtual exhaustion by innumerable fat-arsed knights of the shire.
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