(55) Morado

I spent thirteen hours in the queue to see the Queen lying in the state—I arrived at the royal corpse at 02:45 AM. For company I had two Barnet wideboys, one a trader in tha sity—the other a wheeler-dealer (“I’m making money in the queue, look at that!”); two genuine Eastenders from Souwth London, one who worked for the Met as an office manager (what are you like, Cheryl?!) and the other, her brother, who “worked in a supermarket” (says Cheryl) and was decorated in a Jaws-themed sweatshirt and a Star Trek t-shirt; a narcissistic Anglophile Indian lady and her daughter and her boyish though Mephistophelean English boyfriend (forked beard, mid-twenties, works for “a traditional British stockbrokers”, looking to move to Guildford for the schools—piqued the class envy in the Barnet wideboys, “Not got a fortune, mate.”); and, finally, a gay Indonesian (probably) from Florida. In short, typical royalists.

Everyone has gone down hill even more since I last visited London—people look deformed and ill, mainly overweight (the women have developed these weird avocado-shaped asses that you see everywhere these days); the environment was fetid and swampy, sub-tropical. The only healthy looking people were just-off-the-boat Africans, many work security and look like they were just photoed for Riefenstahl’s Africa—and also look like they want to machete you to pieces (the future belongs to them). The only vaguely healthy English were the policewomen, who were disproportionately blonde and petite.

The queue was 98% white in a city that is only 40% white—indeed, the queue was whiter than London was in the 1990s when the city was still far and away majority white. Basically, the queue was the English nation represented as a single body—and it clearly has nothing to do with the airport lounge that the goons who run the county have cultivated over the past sixty years. As for my three minutes with Her Majesty’s cadaver, I dipped my head briefly and walked on to Waterloo.