Dear Diary. The Queen is dead. Yes, Queen Elizabeth the second, queen of England, has passed into the realm of no return. Lizzy has eaten her final crumpet. ER, Elizabeth Regina, has bowed her final bow and has exited the stage, a gilded stage paid for by tax-payer money, tax-payers like me and you.

Well, fuck her, I can't believe I'm even bothering to spend even a moment of my time writing about her. We shouldn't have a royal family anymore. The idea that there's this group of rich people who we worship and give more money to, it's as outdated as the idea of children working down coal mines. (Here's an idea: instead of coal mines, why about cola mines? Where cola miners have to dig for Coca cola.)

I especially hate that fucking tosspot, Prince Harry. If I ever see him, I swear to God I'll pounce on him and strangle him with my bare hands. He's not even that handsome, and yet he's somehow married to Megan Markle, only one of the sexiest women on the planet. Of course, that pisses me off. I imagine that ginger-haired bastard banging away at Megan Markle’s pussy while I'm at home, masturbating alone into a fleshlight.