Be careful what you wish for

Be careful what you wish for

Once upon a time, on a small island off the western coast of Europe, there lived a king whose name was Sirob.

For many years, he had ruled over the kingdom which he had renamed Thucydia, although few knew the reason why.

Sirob ruled alone save for his solitary advisor, the Grand Vizier, Domcum.

“We done so much together, haven’t we Domcum?” said Sorib, wistfully, one day

“Yeah, mate,” (Domcum was the only commoner authorised to address the monarch as ‘mate’), “you’ve signed at the bottom of the page.”

“Got rid of that tiresome Parliament, deported all the judges and closed down the Grauniad. And does anyone now remember the BBC? What is there left to do? It was much more fun when I could appear on TV waving my arms around and chanting, “Get Brexit Done”.

“Yeah, mate.”

I’m bored... I’m now King for life after that referendum you fixed for me ten years ago... just got to make up my mind which of my children will take over when I move on to the great hedge fund in the sky.”

“Yeah, mate.”

“Talking of children... have we got a complete list?”

“Yeah, mate... those that we know of.”

“Good... but what am I going to DO, Dommie? You don’t mind me calling you Dommie do you?”

“Nah, mate... bad idea. Be too easy to call us Dommie and Dummy. Even Rupert’s rags might like that one.”

“OK, Dommie, you know best. I’ll just call you Dommie when we’re alone. Our little secret”

“I do have an idea, mate. You ought to take over a football club.”

“A football club... you mean soccer?”

“Yeah, mate.”

“Well, you know best, Dommie... but soccer? Surely that’s for oafs who don’t read Thucydides and are too pansy to play rugger – or the Wall Game.”

“Yeah, mate, but it’ll go down well with the proles... man o’ the people and all that... like all those Arab sheikhs... I’m already in talks.”

“In talks? Who with?”

“Little province, way off the beaten track but used to be in the big time... Norvicensia. You went there in the ’19 election for half-an-hour. Remember?”

“No recollection at all, Dommie. Have they got a football club?”

“Yeah. Interesting one. Run by an old girl who’s nearly 100. Funnily enough, she used to be called a Queen as well... Delsmi, Queen of the Kitchen---used to boil eggs on TV. “King usurps Queen would make a good headline.”

“As you say, Dommie, sounds interesting.”

“There might be a little local resistance but nothing that a bit of targeted social media marketing couldn’t sort out.”

“What about shares, Dommie. Doesn’t she own the shares?”

“Yeah, but we can get hold of them through compulsory purchase.”

“Compulsory purchase? Does that cover shares now?”

“It will do when we issue an edict under the royal prerogative. Piece of piss.”

“Well, if you say so, Dommie. It does sound rather fun. Can I do a ceremonial kick-off at the start of games?

“You can do what you like, mate. You’ll own it. I’ll give the old girl a ring just as she’s ready to turn in with her cocoa.”

... to be continued

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