Give me your land! That’s not a request, it’s a demand. Why? Because I was born into an inbred family of attic dwelling monsters whose whim it is to garner and gather all peerage and hollow rank it is that allows them to lord it over stretches of foreign countries of which they have no stake nor claim, by birth or blood, to inherit.
What am I talking about; the English royal family, that’s who. Prince Charles in particular, or, as all his worthless, and unearned titles would have him named: His Royal Highness The Prince Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales, KG, KT, GCB, OM, AK, CC, QSO, PC, ADC, Earl of Chester, Duke of Cornwall, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Prince and Great Steward of Scotland.
Duke of Rothesay? Earl of Carrick? Baron of Renfrew? Lord of the-fucking-Isles?! And the Great Steward of Scotland? By what right does that feeble little German runt dare think himself the Lord of the Isles? A title of loftier rank than any his Incestual blood should merit, or warrant. He is no Lord of the Isles, and certainly no descendant of Somerled, and yet there it is, right in his long-winded and pompously archaic name. The Lord of the Isles has nothing to do with his English heritage, or his Germanic, Russian, Swiss, Dutch, Romanian and sundry other ancestral ties, and so by what right does he have to proclaim himself thus? And who is his mother to doll out such names in the first place.
And what about the Great Steward of Scotland; a title given to those men whom served a legitimate Scottish monarch; who were created to serve the nation, and its king unyieldingly, and against the English, I might add. What has that vegetable crooner ever done to steward the fate of Scotland, other than wear a Kilt like a fucking tourist anytime he’s sniffing about Balmoral?* Nothing; he’s done nothing for this country, yet gets to shower himself with our ancient peerage, and simply on account of having the most tenuous links to our noble ancestors; literally one ancestor of his was Scottish; hell, I have more Celtic noble ancestry than that ineffectual little shite, so where is my rank and brass; where is my castle and knighthood and issue?
You see, I don’t get one because my mentally unhinged and incestuous ancestors weren’t heathen warmongers who slew, razed, shattered and raped the citizens of a neighboring country through a greedy lust for riches and status and acclaim; to dominate and control all of which they deemed should be there’s alone. I don’t get one, and yet they get to retain their grip on Scotland out of tradition alone; they, whose ancestors raped and murdered us. That is what these titles represent, and that is where they originate; the issue of murderers; dominance.
Ask yourself: does a stranger deserve to proclaim himself’ lord of your back garden? A stranger whose dad literally just hooked your elderly mum in the jaw; does that man then get to sit on your back fence and demand a fistful of money to fuel up his Aston martin, which is also, incidentally, parked in your garage? Ridiculous!
And what’s more, they never earned a single one of their damned titles, or the medals they so smugly wear pinned to their chests; prince Phillip never saw any action during the wars, and yet his old tits sag with cheery little adornments; same with prince harry and his balding gimp of a brother William; they did as little fighting as I do on any online battlefield match. Its utterly disgusting that in this day and age we still allow such empty and archaic practices to endure, that this family’s ambition is still tolerated; that we still raise them up by their fluke of birth alone, when we should tear them down and see how they like living in a one bedroom flat on Jobseekers like half the fucking rest of the country they lord it over does!
Men and women should earn these things, not simply be given them as an afterthought to their arranged-marriage-birth, like nicknames a month into a new school year, you have to earn them. That’s the thing that gets me; that the pale and sickly children of the nobility get everything given to them, when you or I have to work for everything we have. Why should some little plum-mouthed shit be raised above me, without ever having contributed anything to the society above which they perch like fattened and loth crows? What use is the rank, Viscount, to a three year old anyway?
In fact, you know what; I’m the Lord of the Isles now; a MacDonald of Clanranald, man! MacPhadrain, MacIan, MacSeamus, MacRae, MacAlpin, MacGregor, Howie, and Douglas! So, give me your land, and give me your money prince Charles; and I’ll tell you what, unlike you, there are plenty of soldiers in my family who were never burdened with as many service medals as you are (Stolen Valor), and I bet you they have/had seen more action than you or any of your pampered offspring ever did; certainly, they never had an attack helicopter cockpit, or the hull of a warship out in the Atlantic, to protect them when the rockets fell like fucking apocalyptic hail, or when the ambushes were sprung, or the bullets begun ripping concrete from the cover around them; every single man in my entire family, is whom I speak of, from the Napoleonic wars and Jacobite risings, through to WW1/WW2, the Falkland’s and into Afghanistan and Iraq. I deserve to be steward, and I deserve to be a king far more than you ever will you big-eared, gnome-looking Dumbo son of an inbred bitch.
You and your attic-breeders have no sway over me, and I do not acknowledge you or your rule. You are kings and queens of England, never Scotland. You are nothing; meaningless; indistinguishable from the rest of your ilk. Stay in England, and leave Scotland for us Scots. Oh; but enjoy those medals your mummy gave you Charlie, cause you aint’ ever getting the throne from the ol’ hag. So there is that, at least.
Author: His Royal Highness Cinead MacAlpin, Prince of Scotland, Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick, Baron of Renfrew, Lord of the Isles and Great Steward of Scotland, a MacDonald of Clanranald, MacPhadrain, MacIan, MacSeamus, MacRae, MacAlpin, MacGregor, Howie, and a Douglas.
P.S If your still reading this far. Happy Hogmanay, and best o’ luck in the New Year, I suppose. Now, I’m awa tae crack open a bottle o’ ten year old ‘Jura Origins’ Scotch.