O.K. it's time to hose down all this anti Royal rubbish that is being spewed all over this site.

I suppose you crypto-pinko-lesbian-poofy set on this blog think it's clever and funny to chuck shit at all the time honoured institutions that have served us well. You've obviously got nothing better to do than sit around staring at their filthy lint filled poisonous navels and slagging off at your olders and betters. Shame on me if I suggest you get off your hairy cellulitic arses and get a frigging job!

The Queen has done more for Britain in her lifetime than you pack of lice infected mangy pinko dingoes could do in ten lifetimes. (Or the lifetime of the Queen Mother, which ever is the longest.) Not only has she bestowed her kindness on the British people but she's gone out of her way to extend a helping hand to Australians from all walks of life. She didn't have to do that, but such is the greatness of this lady that she finds time in her onerous duties to include in her considerations a humble race of people thousands of miles away from her.

Her task is not been made easy by the appalling behavior of some of the staff of the Royal Hicehold. It is an index of her compassion that they have not been transported to Tower Bridge for a bloody good flogging or at the very least a hangin' and a drawin' and a quarterin'.

That frigging Paul Burrell! Well, why Prince Phillip didn't arrange another of his one way ticket to the tunnels of Paris for the snake in the grass I'll never frigging know. Gratitude?! Her Ma'amship snatches him from the jaws of looking down the barrel of the abyss of sharing 20 years of porridge with Jeffrey Archer after she had managed to save up her guineas for a consultation with the Palace's repressed memory syndrome advisor and what thanks does she get for it? Sweet frigging Fanny Adams! Oh no! Mr. frigging Burrell, not satisfied with merely selling his arsehole to the devil, pockets a squillion from the gnomes of Fleet Street in return for spilling the Royal legumes. I sincerely hope he is stripped of his Order of the Garter. How appropriate the motto "Honi soit qui mal y pense". For the benefit of you pinkoes who thought that the education system was a bourgeois conspiracy (give me a frigging break!) it translates as "Any swine who merely ponces". (Eat you heart out Mr. Byron "Puns-R-Frigging-Me" Hughes!)

Well at least one of our Australian poofs is making short frigging work of his credibility. Not that it excuses that pansy's preverted lifestyle one iota. Let me tell you right now, if that shirtlifter shows his poxy face within a 100 miles of Kalgoorlie he won't know what's frigging struck him. He's in for the mother of all poofter bashings. We'd frigging tar and feather the bastard but he's just as likely go straight (no, you smug little smartarses, that wasn't a frigging "no pun intended", which again reminds me, that frigging Byron Hughes ought to take a good hard look at himself!) to the Sydney Poofter Mardi Gras and win "The Most Novel Costume" prize.

I don't suppose you lot have one jot of sympathy in your bilious hearts for the plight foisted upon Her Ma'amship. How would you feel if you had to do your own butling, wipe your own arses and first thing in the afternoon face a breakfast of toast and Vegemite that hadn't been given the all clear by a trusty food taster? Pretty bloody pissed off if I'm not mistaken.

I honestly can't say that I agree with her policy about employing all those nancy boys but I grudgingly admit that she is a kinder and slightly more tolerant person than me, but in moments of silent contemplation even she might have to admit that she is now reaping the whirlwind. To give her her due she did keep them off the street where we didn't have to see them poncing about like paisley and leather clad Barbie dolls and they were at least stopped from carrying out predatory nocturnal missions that entrapped passing members of the Tory shadow cabinet who were innocently popping out at 3 a.m. to borrow half a cup of fishnet stockings from young Jeremy at No. 54.

I don't know where she is now going to find trusted servants. People who know their place in the pecking order. Footmen who know that their nightly thrashing from Phillip is character building. Butlers who appreciate that the scars they bear from their near death mauling experiences at the paws of the Fifth Light Corgis are badges of honour. Scullery maids who don't turn a hair when Charles pops into the kitchen to chew the fat with the courgettes and the broccoli.

Let me tell you Peggy Farcus is not sitting back wringing her hands in despair. I won't have the Royal family left floundering, royalfully soldiering on, down to their last couple of faithful retainers. I have submitted a list of Kalgoorlie kiddies whose parents are willing to transport them to the Mother country to be trained as obedient and loyal servants. As I put it to the "Kalgoorlie Save the Queen" committee, "it is only fair that as a country that was founded by transportees from Britain we should return the favour in Her Ma'amship's hour of direst need". There was unanimous frigging patriotic support, which of course you pinko pricks wouldn't understand if it got up and chewed your cods off.

Take note of this too you smartarse layabouts, not that you lot would know a positive role model from an amoeba's pizzle. Even before the vote was taken (and to make sure the ballot was kosher we has members of the Iraqi Electoral Commission overseeing the process, that should even satisfy you pack of Bush-hating Saddam-loving shit-for-brains) some of the kiddies from the Kalgoorlie under 12 swimming team, Kylie-Narelle Stropp, Tarkwin Smith, Bruce Bogon, Skye Blumfield, Sheree Nordstrum and Chookie Fowler were going at it frangerlessly hammer and tong around the back of the Mechanics Institute Library breeding up a storm of future Royal food tasters and spitoon polishers.

Anyhow I reckon I'm wasting my breath by pissing into the wind with you lot. In the immoral words of Setev Lellgain, the cartoonist at the "Kalgoorlie Kronicle", when he was faced with a similar mob of smartarses, "You lot giev me the shits. I'm friggin' out of hear!"