SMOKE: Email To The Queen
Originally published: 23 March 2004
I was thinking of sending an email to a queen - I know plenty of 'em, from drag artists to boy-sluts to straight men in denial.
But it's dangerous sending an email to a queen, because next thing you know you're involved in hot online boy-talk, leading to a filthy encounter in the bogs at Bob's in the rank depths of some 2am-Tuesday.
Or so they tell me.
So I thought I'd steer clear and go to the biggest queen of all - Elizabeth. I'm largely ambivalent about her one way or the other, but I have some issues nonetheless, and a question or two.
Which I jotted down in an email.
I'm going to jump right in here, although I believe the etiquette dictates that I should bow and scrap, kiss rings (on fingers, as well as those beneath sensible underwear), smile too much and generally behave like anyone's dear old subject, but to be honest - that stuff really isn't my scene.
So here goes.
Have you never had the desire - when being interviewed, say - to just suddenly do something completely against your character and social and political standing?
I dunno ... in response to a question about child welfare, for example - to suddenly sit bolt upright, stare around wildly, scream "Fuck!" at the top of your lungs, and go hopping off down the corridor on one foot with your finger in your ear?
Or maybe not something quite as extreme as that, although believe me when I tell you if I was King I'd pull something like that one day, just for the absolutely mindblowing effect it would have on those around me.
But maybe if you were sitting at a banquet table entertaining heads of state you could develop a strange twitch - almost imperceptible, but enough for everyone to realise that something is not right with you. A sudden crick of the neck, an eye fluttering out of control briefly, a startling jackknifing of the elbow and wrist - just something to freak folks out.
The reason I ask this odd question is because surely it's interminably boring being a modern Queen? In the old days it was fantastic - a queen could order whoever she didn't like to be executed, she could shag her relatives, hell - if she wanted to she could even command the armed forces.
But you are quite probably the last ever Queen to the throne of England (if Johnny Rotten has anything to do with it) and in this modern era you've had to bite back on all that subjugating the peasants stuff and concentrate on silly issues like charity, or Camilla.
Everything you do and say has to be done within the bounds of your inherited etiquette, and although I'm sure you're used to it by now - don't you ever just get the urge to take a crap and the hell with it?
I certainly would if I were you.
The problem for you, Liz, is that there's an even newer, more modern set of throne inheritors - Will has shown that he can muck down with the best of 'em in the simple vegetable gardens of Africa, while Harry tokes down a mean lungful of Swazi when offered the opportunity, and when they take the throne their reign will be even more modern than yours.
Which will leave you looking like a dowdy old hasqueen, which is - of course - what you will be.
So I'd like to help, if at all possible. I don't agree with all those who call for the downfall of the monarchy, and despite your relative lack of adventure I'm sure that between us you and I could find some ways of beating the brats to the punch.
So - funkin' up da Queen...
Well - you could start by getting into heroin, although I'd recommend you work your way up through the lowly ranks of weed, ecstasy, acid and cocaine first. You can get all skinny-nouveau - the "heroin look", I believe the design queens call it - dye your hair black and grow it long without washing it.
Not quite the image they want you to portray for the kiddies, but the kiddies be damned, right?
Then I'd advocate a black boyfriend - it's very trendy, and shows that not only are you in touch with your people, but even the black people as well. Get an American one for even more legitimate homie-style lovin', and then you can walk around and say things like "Yo!" and "Wassup?" and "Bitch" and "Ho".
I'm not sure that you'd be able to use those words, since apparently only black Americans are allowed to, but you do have a bit of pull, being Queen and all. So it's worth a shot, and loads of fun if it comes off. Mandingo, baby. You know what I'm talkin' 'bout.
We need to get you onto 40 straight Kents a day and a cool little mobile to text your friends (on a side note: what do you and your friends talk about? You know - like - you and your gal pals? Do you have dirty little pyjama parties at which you not only discuss the various sizes of your boyfriends' you-know-what's, but actually engage in group-sapphic-erotica-big-breasted-lesbian-ho-sex as well?).
I'm of the impression that that happens at all pyjama parties, although chicks always try and convince you otherwise. You know: "No, silly - we talk about babies and cooking, and what our old school friends are up to now".
Well - that's all a little off the beaten track, but I assume you get where I'm going. I know that it's all a little new and frightening, but trust your old pal Luke - I'm gonna make you a star!!
Gotto dash - I'm off to kill someone.
PS: WTF happened to Fergie?! Gone. Pouf! Vanished into the night. I mean - she used to be pretty big news around your neck of the woods, didn't she? Bet she's dying to air all those nasty little secrets, hey? Or do you have some kind of contract with her preventing her from doing so?
I reckon there's all sorts of tales of Ghostly Charlie slinking around the hollow corridors of Buckingham Palace at unholy hours, lips drawn back in a snarling rictus of insanity as his bony frame is silhouetted against the frosted glass at the end of the spooky corridor, lit up by the madness of the moon.
But I'd settle for any good "courtier discovered asphyxiated by own soiled panties" stories.
I sent the mail to Queen Elizabeth but it was intercepted by MI5, and now I've got a bunch of blokes in suits and shades hanging around outside my door. As if that's anything new.
All Smoked Out,