An IA double-header: pieces by George Said and William Gladys, both reflecting on the true allegiances of our ruling family.
The Queen is married to a husband of Greek origin; she had a mother who was Scottish, a grandmother who was German and a great-grandmother from Denmark; her husband’s grandmother was Russian. Among her forefathers was the Prophet Mohammed.
The Queen is descended from the marriage of Edmund of Langley, the fifth son of King Edward III, to Isabel of Castile in 1372. Isabel was the daughter of Pedro the Cruel, who was descended from the Prophet.
I do not mind that the Queen is related to the Prophet, but I mind when the Queen’s husband is regarded as of Greek origin. He is a member of the Danish-German House of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glücksburg, born in Greece 1921 and exiled in 1924 together with his family.
Do you think he is Greek? If you think he is Greek because he was born in Greece then you might as well believe that if someone is born in a stable they must be a horse. The royals have no allegiances to any country. They belong to a class of people who maintain their wealth and position through strategic marriages.
Now why would Australians suck up to a descendant of Mohamed and a pseudo-Greek? Is she English, perhaps Australian, or is she too pseudo-something?
Why do people, especially women, regard these parasites of society with such reverence? Perhaps because she is related to the Prophet Mohamed and he spent three years as an infant in Greece. There again who am I to question their legitimacy? Let’s ask Tony Abbott — he knows everything.
Woops, that’s my Greek name
Dreams of monarchy
British Republican William Gladys recounts a strange dream he had about Australia’s (and Britains) royal family.
On returning from a visit to my local doctor, I watched the British Parliament’s live debate on TV. To my surprise, our elected MP’s were discussing the Queen’s Jubilee. I say “surprised”, because openly debating the royals or the monarchy is considered taboo — or a strictly no go subject in our quaintly named parliamentary democracy. On this occasion however, it was evident that sycophancy and blinkered praise were in the ascendant, any whiff of scorn or condemnation of the Queen, her royals and Jubilee guaranteeing immediate incarceration in the Tower! Later that evening, I considered the honourable Hippocratic Oath that in part the medical profession still swear, and the similar sounding but secret and deplorable Oath that Britain’s members of parliament swear in support of undemocratic royal hereditary privilege, their unctuous ignoble Oath of Hypocrisy.
It was a mild sunny day in April, as I stood on the green outside the Houses of Parliament London. I remember looking at my reflection in a car window, when suddenly I metamorphosed into a handsome swallow. At the time, I felt no fear but pleasure at the sudden change and, without really knowing why, flew into the main debating chamber of the House of Commons and settled comfortably on a rafter close to the gilded ceiling. From the front bench, a haughty subservient mouth slavering MP actively sucked up to the Queen, her heirs and successors. Suddenly the doors to the chamber burst open and, lo and behold, the Queen and her immediate lineage came into view. In the exaggerated surroundings, the appropriate melodic orchestral strains of Deutsche Alles echoed in the chamber. In the background, a solitary unseen falsetto voice sang the recurring words, Deutsche Frauen, deutsche Treue. A sentiment that clearly delighted the royal horde, as self-satisfying nods and obnoxious grins from the Queen and her entire entourage showed.
As the royal pack, wearing their congruent highly polished black jack-boots, marched past the rows of sycophants, a distinctive odour of sulphur was manifest. Even so, the men of the house did nothing but avert their gaze bowing low in debasing deference, while the women did likewise, curtseying most horribly. Indeed, I was so shocked to see such pitiful licking of the royal jack-boot that I almost fell from my perch.
As the royals settled contentedly at the far end of the chamber, a large pack of twenty-four fierce Doberman dogs with leather-studded collars bounded in and stood guard in front of each one. Alarmingly, each animal had menacing devil red eyes, which mirrored their royal masters and mistresses. I trembled as I recalled past instances of Lucifer’s fearsome reputation. Beyond the open doors of the massive lobby, a group of heavily laden mules waited patiently. Cruelly, two had fallen badly breaking their front legs. This allowed the enormous leather sacks and trunks on their bruised and battered backs to break open, spilling precious jewels, gold, silver and wad upon wad of high value bank notes in all directions. Panic-stricken uniformed royal toadies gathered up armfuls of the covert wealth frantically snatching as many cameras as they could from dumbstruck bystanders.
It was at that auspicious moment that an ominous hovering black cloud and a shattering explosion of thunder and lightning panicked the remaining mules. In the hellish darkness, the animals fled into the welcoming arms of an embittered British public — who claimed the proceeds of the royals overflowing coffers and ran off with them. Later in my dream, I was gratified to see this obscene wealth distributed amongst the millions of needy in Britain’s abysmal class and wealth divided society.
As the uproar of panicking mules subsided, I witnessed a long snaking line of angry people forcing their way into the chamber. Most of them carried banners displaying striking slogans condemning the royal family, and the obsequious government members that supported them: “No More Cash for Royals” – “Make Royals pay for their own Security” – “Freedom of Information Act – No Privileges for Royals”, “For Goodness Sake Just GO!”, “Leave Us Alone” and many, many more. It was edifying to see that the last two banners were held by schoolchildren.
As the endless lines of people from all ages and lifestyles; teachers, students, police officers, unions, civil servants, medical professionals, shop workers, factory workers, journalists, and countless school children reached the seated members of the royal family, they were subjected to strident abuse and thrusting bejewelled fingers. “Get back to Work!” – “Know Thy Place!” – “Bow & Curtsey before Us!” – “Let them eat Pasties!” “Let them eat Offal!” “Respect the Blue Blooded!” Not surprisingly, most members of parliament repeated the royal ignoble howling as it echoed around the chamber and in to the streets. Like indoctrinated fixated robots, they acquiesced to their royal masters and mistresses. On the other hand, and to their everlasting credit, a handful of principled members in the house applauded a long overdue reckoning.
Without warning, a strange, severe silence settled within the ancient structure. The ranting and raving, the sound of marching feet, the aggressive thrusting and reverberating royal fingers, the snarling of dogs all ceased. As the front of the silent marching multitude, reached the wall at the far end of the chamber it mysteriously disappeared like a will o the wisp through the wall. At the entrance to the chamber however, an infinite line of angry protesters continued their inexorable surge forward. In the distance, a single bell started to toll and astonishingly at that moment, the twenty-four Doberman guard dogs, with lolling tongues and heavy padding of paws ran out of the chamber. In my dream, I recognised the departure of the Jagdhunds as a clear analogy; a final banishment of centuries of indoctrinated allegiance and blind adherence to royal hypocrisy and immorality. Indeed, the Jagdhunds leaving was symptomatic of unstoppable evolving egalitarian change in a British population previously lacking in rational and objective thought towards the malevolence of hereditary privilege.
After the Jagdhunds had fled, I was overwhelmed but gratified to see each of the profligate royals seized by the ‘commoners’, and carried through the end wall. What happened to Britain’s appalling dynasty thereafter I do not know, but as news of the nation’s liberation spread, street parties and fireworks displays were organised on a massive scale. Most rewarding however, was the spectacle of a huge flag decorated flotilla of small boats making their way up the Thames to Tower Bridge, as the revitalizing sound of the newly adopted people friendly national anthem resonated throughout the city of London and the rest of the country.
William Gladys (London, 2012)
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