Twiglet fingers

The intro goes here, it runs over three lines and should gently undermine the confidence of our columnist… what? We’ve not written an intro? gah

When I stagger into her stuffy chambers, she’s sat on her silk commode huffing a bulging vacuum cleaner bag. She casts a bloodshot eye in my direction. The butlers told me to expect this.

“Hello, ma’am,” I say, and she makes a kind of gang sign with her Twiglet fingers. Under my arms are seven-inch singles: Cabaret Voltaire, Milli Vanilli, Baha Men, Black Lace. I show her the cover of ‘Nag Nag Nag’. She dribbles a grey ooze, wet carpet fluff hangs from her chin.

“It’s a gift for you,” I say, although I’m not sure what royals listen to. When she frowns at me, her face crumbles like a tobacco-stained guest house teetering off an eroded cliff. Maybe this was a bad idea. People told me not to visit the Palace to accept an award for services to electronic music.

“The Queen doesn’t exist,” said my friends, “she’s just a pedal bin with a hat painted on.”

“But I owe it to my legions of Electronic Sound fans,” I protested.

“That doesn’t exist, either,” they said, “it’s just some shapes drawn onto a box of Cadbury Fingers.”

“Shut up”, I said, “just shut up.”

While I’m thinking this, she’s mounted a royal pedalo and is crashing into furniture. Her arms flail all over the place. This reminds me that she is a massive acid house fan and is often caught throwing shapes at the Crown Jewels. I’m really looking forward to this award. A courtier now has her in an arm lock, her face pressed against a wall. She spits curse words under her breath. Situation contained.

I thought the wallpaper looked expensive at first, but it’s just plain paper coloured in with yellow highlighter pen. Even the fountains contain scrunched-up tissue paper instead of water. It all looks so much better on TV.

“Ma’am?” I say. But no, she’s fallen fast asleep as the butlers manhandle her across the room like an old mattress. The award is resting on a pile of pizza boxes in the corner. “Shall I just… ?” I say quietly, and I scoop up the award, replacing it with the seven-inch singles.

I bow my thanks to the unconscious ruler and her wet snores. I trot to the exit, past display cabinets of stuffed corgis, past framed portraits made with Microsoft Paint, past a chewing gum splattered statue of Cabaret Voltaire. I was right!

Outside, I blink at the sun then take a closer look at my prize for services to electronic music. It’s a phallic trophy fashioned from Blu-Tack, like a post-watershed Oscar statuette made by horny Staples staff. A rectangle of lined paper stuck to the bottom says “TO FART ROLAND FOR ELECTRIC MUSIC AND STUFF”.

Proud salty tears form in my eyes. She made this beautiful gesture because my Electronic Sound fans love me so much; what an honour. I turn back to see if she’s looking out of the window, dusty snot caking her sweaty upper lip. But there’s no Palace. I’m standing on my patio looking at my garden shed. In one hand is a normal blob of Blu-Tack and in my other hand is a half-spilled vacuum cleaner bag. I’ve drooled gunk down my Cabaret Voltaire T-shirt.

“Oh,” I say. “The Electronic Sound readers must never, ever know about this.”

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