.... the Fascist Regime
She’s sure come a long way since her days of goose stepping on Balmoral’s front lawn hasn’t she? Wasn’t she an adorable wee Nazi? Now look how much she’s grown! Today she is entering her 70th year on the throne and those fascist days are surely long behind her… right?
“God Save the Queen!” they cry out in a sycophantic wail. “The Fascist Regime!” we respond in our usual, tired cynicism. We still remember her family’s ties to Nazism. We still remember her uncle selling our lives off to Hitler. We still remember all the years of despotism that the wankers-in-chief have subjected us to. Those blue-blooded bastards have held us in their claws for far too long, and worse, have tricked us into accepting it as a moral good.
They’ve made you a pom pom. The House of Windsor has transformed us into a nation of fools, gawking and gasping at the soap opera of monarchy, behind the bars that they put between us. All the pageantry. All the glitz and glamour. All the wealth and opulence that we will never experience in our short sad lives. To them we are but pond scum, floating midst the churning brood of those that look to us only as food, as mere sustenance to gorge on and keep themselves fat. And we love them for it.
Our great nation is a potential H-bomb, put together from the fuel of millions of devoted disciples, the fuse of a rogues’ gallery that we call Parliament and the trigger that we call the “will of the people”, personified in Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II. She commands our armies. She presides over our state religion. She chooses our governments. There is no-one above Lizzy 2, the Highest of Virtue, but God Himself.
“God Save the Queen!” they chant once again, uniting in a cultic chorus of worship. “She ain’t no human being!” we shout back at our peers. There is nothing about her that we can call human. She grew up in a palace, surrounded by people all telling her that she had a divine right to rule over all of us. She is not human because she lacks humanity. She considers herself above the human, above us. If she were human, she never would have taken that crown in the first place, let alone broadcast to billions of people each year all her gloating triumphalist screeds, reassuring us that we are worth nothing, that she is truly better than us.
There is no future in England’s dreaming because England only dreams of a fictional past. Remember when we almost conquered France? Remember when we used to rule the world? Remember when we beat Germany, twice? We can do that again, probably. We can go back to the days of two world wars and one world cup. We can do da do da. All you need do is place all your hopes and aspirations in an institution that should have been liquidated 400 years ago. Then you can keep dreaming, you can stay asleep, comforted by the fantasy of bygone glory.
Don’t be told what you want, your desires should come from the heart, not from the motivations of a sickly cabal of evil rulers who think they know what’s best for you. Ask yourself: what do you really want? Is it really to live under the yoke of a few fanciful fascists that could not care less whether you lived or died? Is it really tied to the opportunistic hunger of the rich and powerful, whose only drive is to see their own wealth and power increase?
Don’t be told what you need. They have no idea what you need. They haven’t even a concept, an idea, of what needs are. Their lives are luxurious, pampered and grand. They have never needed anything in their entire existence. Meanwhile, we toil and grind for simply the means to fulfill our most basic of needs, our need to keep a roof over our heads and dry shoes on our feet. When has Liz the Great ever experienced the true cold of a winter night without heating? When has Beth the Magnificent ever pained over where her next meal is going to come from.
There’s no future. We cannot have a future so long as we’re under these freaks, these abominations of our worst nightmares, these animals that thrive off our grief. Our future is subordinated to their future and their future is whatever their heart desires. Their future is dragging us deeper down into the mud so that they can keep their heads lodged firmly in the clouds.
No future. We can only focus on the present. Will we be able to sleep in our own beds come the first of next month? Will we be able to pay for our food from the scraps of change we have in our pockets? Will the next exorbitant bill be the one that finally cuts off our internet, our electricity, our running water?
There’s no future for you. The future is a fiction. At best, your future is a long, miserable slog of working until you drop dead. Our air is thick with smog. Our rivers are being poisoned. Our ground is no longer able to grow food. This is our reality. This is what can only charitably be described as our future. But their future? Their future is the same as it always was: the comfortable warmth of the castle, the security of a horde willing to die for them, the assumption that they were hand-chosen by a great bearded sky-father to crush the people under their feet.
“God Save the Queen!” they scream into the skies. By this point, it is beginning to convince us, we mean it man. Why shouldn’t God Save the Queen? Because if God isn’t saving the Queen, then who is? If there isn’t some all-powerful, all-knowing, all-present being out there personally protecting the Queen, then what is stopping us from storming Buckingham Palace and treating her the same way we did her ancestor Charlie the Headless? Is it her funny-looking guards? The ones that are happy to kick children to the ground on their pointless patrols? Surely we can take those lecherous creatures, if they still need their God to do the saving.
“We love our Queen!” they screech into our faces. This one isn’t hard to believe. There is a genuine love, bordering on sexual desire, for the Queen. Would they fuck the Queen? Maybe if ordered. Would they do whatever she asked of them, for little more reward than for her to do that weird wave vaguely in their direction? Now that is unquestionable. The police, the military, the elected officials in Westminster, all of them pledge their undying loyalty to the Queen. Love for the Queen has killed millions, whether that be in the deserts of Iraq, the mountains of Afghanistan, or even the hallways of the Jobcentre. Love for the Queen is deadly. Love for the Queen is a curse.
God saves. He saves us from having our most fundamental needs met, by giving us a class of people that live off our misery. He saves us from having any power over our lives, by giving it to those that crave power the most. He saves us from living a happy, healthy life, by giving us glorious poverty and death. God saves the children by giving them Prince Andrew. God saves the Cornish by giving them Prince Charles. God saves colonized nations by giving them imperial slavers to rule them from afar. It is high time we admit that the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is the world’s largest and most widely-accepted cult. A cult where God saves us from anything that would make our lives more worth living.
“God Save the Queen!” they continue to shout, louder than they have before. “Because tourists are money!” we sigh, shrugging our shoulders at the state of what we still onerously call our “country”. Not only do they promise us that the wealth of tourists, who drool at the gates to see the world’s most famous murderers, will somehow make their way into our pockets. They also turn us into mere tourists within our own lands. Our lands are not ours. Not even our lives are ours. We are mere temporary visitors in the theme park of the British Empire. Tourists are money, therefore we are money. We are little more than pound-sterling signs to be stuffed into the coffers of greedy swines.
Our figurehead is not what she seems. She claims to be above our temporal grievances, above the petty, posturing politics of the proletarian plebs. But this is little more than a convenient lie, upheld by the very thieves she appoints as her advisors, convincing us that we chose them. She will happily interfere with earthly matters, should it affect her own purse. She will happily rip up what little democratic rights we have, should it blockade her ambitions. She will happily sign off on a vicious ethnic cleansing, should she see profit to be made from the destruction of countless lives.
Oh God save history. 1,000 years of torment and tyranny scar this land. First they came for the English, then the Welsh, then the Irish and the Scots, before their devilish eyes looked elsewhere, to far-off lands for them to rape and pillage. They claim that this is our history, our proud history, our glorious history of our own oppression and the oppression of others. But we know our history well. Our history lies in the spirit of revolt. The spirit of those that first rose up against their conquerors, the spirit of the peasants who slaughtered their government, the spirit of the people that overthrew the old regime and brought about some measure of popular rule.
God save the sad parade. Because this is what they’re up against. We may be facing 1,000 years of domination and butchery, but they face 1,000 years of insurrection and anarchy. All their golden carriages and facile fortifications mean nothing in the face of the rabble, the crowd, the mob. If they don’t renounce their lands and titles now, then they will regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of their pathetic lineage. The Carnival of Kings and Queens will come to an end. The Party of the People will not wait much longer.
All crimes are paid, from petty robbery to high treason. To commit crime against God’s Kingdom of Elizabeth the Lionheart is to move one step towards Revolution. They say that our attempts to survive constitute crime, but the Monarchy was itself built on crime, from the moment its first King tore through villages with barbarity and destruction. We have already paid for our crimes with our own blood, blood that they extracted from us in order to build monuments to their own hubris. But the rulers of our precious Kingdom has yet to pay for theirs. If justice means vengeance against the criminal, then we will have our vengeance before long.
Well there’s no future, how can there be sin? We’ve sinned, oh sure. We have lusted for belonging when they have rejected us, indulged in sustenance when they have denied us, coveted wealth when they have stolen from us, refused to work when they have coerced it from us, lashed out when they have suppressed us, resented when they have held themselves above us and prided ourselves when we have overcome them. Are these truly sins? Sins comparable with the millions of innocent lives put to the sword at Her Majesty’s Pleasure? Surely our sins can be forgiven in the face of that.
We're the flowers in the dustbin. We grow into beauty from the waste they have thrown out. We persevere in the face of their ruthless persecution. Our efforts shine through the darkness, even as they attempt to blot out the sun. No matter how hard they try, they can’t stop us, they will never stop us. We will find away to sprout up and bloom in spite of all adversity, in spite of all hardship, in spite of all pain.
We're the poison in the human machine. For we must destroy the machine. The machine that has corrupted us into a sickening self-portrait, transforming us into “machine-people with machine-minds and machine-hearts”. We must throw a wrench into the gears of this machine. We must become its poison or it will poison us. If we continue to accept that we are subjects to the whims of a crazed tyrant, then that is all we will be. We must reject that. We must sabotage their schemes, destroy their system.
We're the future, your future. If they can’t offer us a future, if they deny us a future, then we will make our own, for you and me and everyone. We will make a future in which our wants and needs are truly satisfied by ourselves, not by the dictates and interpretations of a disconnected elite. We are the future. Us. Not them. While they force us to look backwards, with them, towards the past, we are ourselves stuck in the present. We must break with this reaction and instead forge the future. Our future. Your future.
“God Save the Queen!” we join in with the crowd, swaying as our illustrious football team salutes its masters. We mean it man. God had better save the Queen, or nothing will save her. God didn’t save her husband. God didn’t save her father, or her father’s father, or any of her ancestors before that. If God doesn’t save the Queen, then it stands to assume that he won’t save the King that follows her, or the King that follows him… God Save the Queen. Save the Kingdom. Save Britain. Save them all by putting them out of their misery. Or else, we may taking saving them into our own hands.
We love our Queen. We really do. It’s hard not to when we were born into her eternal presence, nurtured under her watchful gaze, matured along with her aging bones. We mean no ill-will towards the Queen as a person. For all we care, she could go on to tend to her horses for the rest of her life, God knows she probably wants to. We hate the Monarchy because we love our Queen. The Monarchy twisted her into a parasite just as it twisted us into her larvae. Return her the humanity she never had the chance to develop. Return to her a life outside of her gilded cage. God Save the Queen.
God saves… at least, we keeping being told he does. Like lambs to the slaughter, we herd into his hallowed halls to be fed fantasies of pie in the sky, distracting us from the misery of the life he forced upon us. God saves. God saves. God saves us all. We keep hearing this and each time it rings less true. What is he saving us from? Is this what being saved looks like? If so, then why the fuck do we need saving? God only saves himself from own-goals. He doesn’t save us. And he certainly isn’t going to save the Queen.
“GOD SAVE THE QUEEN! WE MEAN IT MAN!” we yell from the top of our lungs. “WHO THE FUCK CAN SAVE US WHILE GOD SAVES THE QUEEN? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON? WHEN THE FUCK IS OUR SALVATION COMING? WHERE THE FUCK IS OUR SUPPORT? WHY THE FUCK IS EVERYTHING LIKE THIS? HOW THE FUCK CAN THINGS GO ON THIS WAY?” We have to keep chanting for God to Save the Queen, or else we’ll start thinking… thinking about the really hard questions that need answering, desperately, now.
There is no future in England’s dreaming because England is still fast asleep. There cannot be a future until England wakes up. There will not be a future until England gets out of bed, cleans itself up, puts on its damn clothes and collects its shit together. We all need to wake up and stop dreaming. Stop dreaming of some fantastical past. Stop dreaming of our beautiful monarchy waving at us. Stop dreaming of pie in the sky. Dreaming ends where action begins. The future is made when we make it.
No future for you. They have stolen your future. They have denied it. They have buried it and pissed on its grave. If you want your future back, you need to take it back. Rip it from the cold, dead hands of those decrepit royals if you must. You have no future now, but you could. You will. You must.
No future for me. There will be no future for me either if there’s none for you. Our futures are bound together, clutched within the vice-grip of a dying institution that would rather take us with it than give up what is rightfully ours. I want a future. I need a future. But I can’t have that future so long as this colossus continues to trample it under foot. I am willing to seize our future, if you are willing to join me.
No future for you. Not now. Not tomorrow. But soon. Together, you and I can seize the future. We can lay the path towards it. All we need do is take down that which stands in our way. That cruel, regal system that continues to crush us, to brutalise us, to terrorise us. We will have our future so long as we confine the Queen, her lineage and her institutions, firmly to the past.
So God Save the Queen. We mean it man. We love our Queen. God saves... ■
P.S. The butter salesman's a prick and all.