Pomp and circumcision

The royal wedding gave us another example (if one was needed) of how stunningly well the British do pageantry. Everything was perfect that could reasonably be managed in advance: timing, transport, decoration, music, lighting, external video relay, crowd-control, security, etc. Everything that could not reasonably be managed in advance was mostly tasteful and bore the stamp of sincerity. And even where taste was in doubt (yes, I’m talking about those unfortunate princess sisters, the one with the hat that resembled an egg whisk and the other with the dress that resembled a pincushion) the results had at least the undeniably festive merit of frivolity. So in my natural innocence – yes, that sounds like me – I imagined that the entire world would be watching with tears in its eyes, a lump in its throat and the best wishes in the world for the princely young couple.

WARNING! This might get weird

Imagine then my surprise to find that not only rabid UK republican party-poopers but also the same people who look for President Obama’s birth certificate in Roswell or Hyderabad, have a dark vision of the British royal family. And that vision focuses on our dear Wills & Kate.

You see, apparently the heir presumptive is the antichrist. I kid thee not. It’s true; I read it on the ultranet. Yes, there are large numbers of Americans (who will believe anything of course), but also others who contend that because William Arthur Philip Louis is six-foot two inches tall, handsomely aquiline and happens to reunite in his person the ancient lines of Plantagenet, Tudor, Stuart, Merovingian, District and Bakerloo (change at Edgware Road), that he thus perfectly matches the shadowy figure on the Turin Shroud (I told you this would get weird) and will be shown in time to bear the same DNA and be in every way the spitting image of Jesus of Nazareth. OK so far?

For some reason this vital information, coupled with the facts that his second name is Arthur, that part III of “The Omen” was released the year he was born and that Disney’s “Lion King” premiered on his twelfth birthday (yes, just when Jesus was presented at the temple) all adds up to Wills being the spawn of Satan, rather than the son of a royal ecologist with big ears and a girl with big hair who listened to Duran Duran and rather fancied George Michael.

You see, I hadn’t realised it before, though it should have been obvious, but the antichrist is to the Christ as anti-matter is to matter; the sinister Zionist mirror-image of the risen Lord. In other words, Rex Mundi has to have the same look and feel and blood and genes and everything as the saviour himself if he is going to fool the “very elect”. But this makes for a bit of a conundrum, because I’ve always been told that: if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and swims like a duck and quacks like a duck … then it most certainly is a duck. No one ever told me about anti-ducks. Perfidious Albion, indeed! The House of Windsor is just a step away from taking over the world. That’ll inflate their allowances.

The devil is in the details

Because it seems Lucifer has been planning this for thousands of years. First he produces the legend of Joseph of Arimathea and the holy Grail, then he forges a plausible connection to a “once and future king” called Arthur to whom everyone will turn for justice (ha, ha, little do they realise what justice they will be getting, the fools) then he conjures up the order of Knights Templar to disseminate and guard this “good” conspiracy down the years, then he sacrifices an Arab to be sure of knocking off Diana in a Parisian underpass and thus creates a tragic yearning for a pure monarchy in the collective mind of the British nation: enter Elton John (the Lion King again) singing “Candle in the wind”, followed by reams of soggy Kleenex and floral tributes. Finally, in a brilliant coup-de-Grace Kelly, the evil one marries his dark Princeling from the line of David off to a nice girl from the Shire (the Middletons of Middle Earth: Merovingian blood, being that of our Lord, cannot even be diluted by an alliance with a commoner) at a ceremony reeking with Pagan symbolism – trees in the Abbey, Sir Elton ‘call me Simba’ John in the nave, bearded druids at the altar, only ex-PMs who happen to be Knights of the Garter (that infamous Masonic order) being invited.

You’re starting to get the picture, right? This marriage is intended to cement the ancient romance of Camelot in the gullible hearts of his (Lucifer’s) future slaves. It is not without significance that everybody sings a jolly round of “Jerusalem” (protocols of the Elders … get it?) in preparation for being ground to pulp by the “dark satanic mills” or Rupert Murdoch, whoever gets them first. Gee whizz! Put me down for a donation. I’m a believer.

Who needs truth? Print the legend!

Meanwhile, Osama bin Laden, who was also six-two with aquiline good looks and impeccable princely credentials, and who has been almost literally hiding under the Turin Shroud masquerading as the antichrist for a decade, and doing quite a decent job of it – after all he did pull off the perfect Illuminati trick, with his 23 numerical value, symbol-heavy blow on the very castle of commerce – gets shopped to the CIA by a neighbour who only popped by to borrow a cup of sugar and found herself thinking: “put a beard on Mrs Mutad-al-Haq and she’d look just like that nice, soft-spoken Mr Bin Laden, as used to live in the third cave from the left out at Tora Bora … oh, crikey, what if?” The result: Osama gets rubbed out by Special Ops with two quick stigmata to the head while trying to duck down behind Mary Magdalene. After this they anoint him with oil, wrap him up in yet another piece of sacred linen and drop him off at sea to become King of Outremer which, genetic proof pending or not, is sure to please both the conspiracy theorists and the guardians of Cathartic mystery. Habeas Corpus? Not bloody likely, this is the “secret” service, remember! Who wants a single certitude when you can get ten good rumours that will run and run and run for the same price? Oh, I almost forgot, Comrade Ché sends his regards.

Edwin Drood

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