TLIAD: I Am A Legend
- Thread starter Meadow
- Start date
1 January 2016
Queen Elizabeth II had attended handovers before. This one was not particularly unlike the rest of them. The fact it was taking place on a dreary hillside the other side of Berwick rather than some mountaintop capital in East Africa was the main difference.
As that oaf Salmond - who had always reminded her of an ape in a cheap suit - wittered on about some brave new world or other, she allowed her eyes to roam. Mr Johnson and his wife were sat with the British - they would still apparently be using that demonym - cabinet. Their Scottish counterparts sat a few metres away, considerably more underdressed. That had always been the way, the Queen supposed as her eyes wandered further.
There stood that handsome Mr Umunna. He did not look happy. And why should he? His party’s electoral chances had just evaporated for a generation, and all thanks to ‘demographics’. There was also the fact that the ‘biggest beast’ in his frontbench team, the shadow Chancellor, was now a citizen of another country. The leader of the Liberals, whose name she could never remember, was stood next to his party’s new leader north of the border. She was certain she saw them sharing a hipflask earlier.
As the Union Flag was lowered, God Save The Queen was played on the pipes for, she supposed, the final time. No, nonsense, she thought. I’m still to be Queen of Scotland, for the time being at least. But her most common title was changed forever. The ‘United Kingdom’ was saved - Mr Johnson, ever the classical state-builder, had leapt at the chance to lead a report into drawing up a new Act of Settlement to ensure as much continuity as possible.
So, she supposed, she was now, as of this moment, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom. Full stop. Mr Johnson had explained it ever so well on the television, complete with some appeal to history by way of the United Provinces and, of course, the United States (he hadn’t pointed out that the latter country’s full name did indeed include an identifying geographical indicator). ‘We’re basically relaunching UK PLC,’ he’d said in one of this television addresses, ‘and this time we’re going with a rebrand. Who honestly used to say all those extra words after United Kingdom, anyway? Apart from geeks like me.’
The Queen allowed herself a small titter at this recollection. Mr Johnson was genuinely amusing, though she would never understand why people referred to him as ‘classic’. His humour was a far cry from the Royal Variety Performances of her youth. The flag was staying the same, too, another aspect of ‘rebrand Britain’. The Queen had allowed herself the smallest of eye-rolls in private when she heard that justification, though she was extremely pleased by the decision itself.
Flower of Scotland, which had followed God Save The Queen, was nearing its end. Mr Salmond had his hand firmly pressed to his breast and was belting out the words. Many whom she could see had tears in their eyes. For the first time, she realised that her own were more than a little wet.
‘Everything is ending,’ she murmured.
‘What was that?’ came a voice from next to her.
‘Nothing, Philip.’
A hand rested gently on her arm.
‘Mummy, it’s me.’
She turned and looked at Charles. Of course.
‘Dad’s not-’
‘I know,’ she snapped. For what felt like the hundredth time, she fought the searing pain that rose from her stomach up to her throat, dabbed her eyes and got on with it.
When the time came to depart, she was met at the bottom of the pavillion by Mr Johnson, who bowed with uncharacteristic grace.
‘Your Majesty, I do hope everything was to your satisfaction.’
She nodded.
‘Thank you, Mr Johnson. My subjects are happy, and therefore so am I.’
As she walked - slowly - toward the waiting car, the wind started up again, and rain began to fall. She sighed. With Philip gone and now her Kingdom cleft in twain, perhaps everything really was ending. It was as if 63 years of emotional weight were pressing down on her with each step on the progressively muddier grass. It became harder and harder to lift her feet, and it seemed as though the car was in fact getting further away.
Finally, Charles was helping her into the car and she gave him a good look up and down. She cupped his cheek and smiled slightly.
‘You’ll be alright, my boy,’ she said enigmatically.
The car set off and she allowed herself to sink into the leather. As she closed her eyes, she became aware of the faintest aroma of oranges.
Queen Elizabeth II had attended handovers before. This one was not particularly unlike the rest of them. The fact it was taking place on a dreary hillside the other side of Berwick rather than some mountaintop capital in East Africa was the main difference.
As that oaf Salmond - who had always reminded her of an ape in a cheap suit - wittered on about some brave new world or other, she allowed her eyes to roam. Mr Johnson and his wife were sat with the British - they would still apparently be using that demonym - cabinet. Their Scottish counterparts sat a few metres away, considerably more underdressed. That had always been the way, the Queen supposed as her eyes wandered further.
There stood that handsome Mr Umunna. He did not look happy. And why should he? His party’s electoral chances had just evaporated for a generation, and all thanks to ‘demographics’. There was also the fact that the ‘biggest beast’ in his frontbench team, the shadow Chancellor, was now a citizen of another country. The leader of the Liberals, whose name she could never remember, was stood next to his party’s new leader north of the border. She was certain she saw them sharing a hipflask earlier.
As the Union Flag was lowered, God Save The Queen was played on the pipes for, she supposed, the final time. No, nonsense, she thought. I’m still to be Queen of Scotland, for the time being at least. But her most common title was changed forever. The ‘United Kingdom’ was saved - Mr Johnson, ever the classical state-builder, had leapt at the chance to lead a report into drawing up a new Act of Settlement to ensure as much continuity as possible.
So, she supposed, she was now, as of this moment, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom. Full stop. Mr Johnson had explained it ever so well on the television, complete with some appeal to history by way of the United Provinces and, of course, the United States (he hadn’t pointed out that the latter country’s full name did indeed include an identifying geographical indicator). ‘We’re basically relaunching UK PLC,’ he’d said in one of this television addresses, ‘and this time we’re going with a rebrand. Who honestly used to say all those extra words after United Kingdom, anyway? Apart from geeks like me.’
The Queen allowed herself a small titter at this recollection. Mr Johnson was genuinely amusing, though she would never understand why people referred to him as ‘classic’. His humour was a far cry from the Royal Variety Performances of her youth. The flag was staying the same, too, another aspect of ‘rebrand Britain’. The Queen had allowed herself the smallest of eye-rolls in private when she heard that justification, though she was extremely pleased by the decision itself.
Flower of Scotland, which had followed God Save The Queen, was nearing its end. Mr Salmond had his hand firmly pressed to his breast and was belting out the words. Many whom she could see had tears in their eyes. For the first time, she realised that her own were more than a little wet.
‘Everything is ending,’ she murmured.
‘What was that?’ came a voice from next to her.
‘Nothing, Philip.’
A hand rested gently on her arm.
‘Mummy, it’s me.’
She turned and looked at Charles. Of course.
‘Dad’s not-’
‘I know,’ she snapped. For what felt like the hundredth time, she fought the searing pain that rose from her stomach up to her throat, dabbed her eyes and got on with it.
When the time came to depart, she was met at the bottom of the pavillion by Mr Johnson, who bowed with uncharacteristic grace.
‘Your Majesty, I do hope everything was to your satisfaction.’
She nodded.
‘Thank you, Mr Johnson. My subjects are happy, and therefore so am I.’
As she walked - slowly - toward the waiting car, the wind started up again, and rain began to fall. She sighed. With Philip gone and now her Kingdom cleft in twain, perhaps everything really was ending. It was as if 63 years of emotional weight were pressing down on her with each step on the progressively muddier grass. It became harder and harder to lift her feet, and it seemed as though the car was in fact getting further away.
Finally, Charles was helping her into the car and she gave him a good look up and down. She cupped his cheek and smiled slightly.
‘You’ll be alright, my boy,’ she said enigmatically.
The car set off and she allowed herself to sink into the leather. As she closed her eyes, she became aware of the faintest aroma of oranges.
Well, Boris managed to create the ideal situation for an independent Wales, which is remarkable.
Long live the KINGDOM of Wales!
Hey, baby steps. We'll get to a Republic when we feel comfortable with the idea.
I want it to live for as long as the people want it. I want it to be a Kingdom, not a Principality.
But all the best countries are principalities! Who doesn't like Liechtenstein and Monaco?
Also, I caught in that she's dying, but what does the smell of oranges mean is wrong with her?
No!!!!!!!! Philip and The Queen dead!!!!!!
That almost made it depressing.
That and the we're sticking with Flower of Scotland.
23 March 2017
'Absolutely no fucking way.'
Steven Moffat could be very petulant when he wanted to be. The young guy who’d drawn the short straw - was his name Alfie? - shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
‘The thing is, Steven, this comes directly from the DG. We’ve been losing out in the ratings for two series straight now.’
‘And why is that?’ Moffat shot back.
Because you decided it’d be a good idea to make Rory’s first major arc a three series-long metaphorical Rubik’s Cube that required a good working knowledge of Moby Dick to appreciate, thought Alfie. His outraged boss continued.
‘I don’t have the answer, but I’ll tell you right now that the answer is not having that godawful man on my show!’
‘It’s not your show, Steven. It’s the Corporation’s,’ said a new voice as it entered the room. Steven’s assistant span round in a panic.
‘G-good evening, sir.’
‘Nice to see you again, Alfie,’ enthused the Director-General.
‘Sir Cameron,’ muttered Steven. Mackintosh smiled back at him.
‘I’m sorry for the imposition, but as you know, the Corporation has been in trouble recently. We could really use a year without a scandal, and a friend in Number 10 would be very useful.’
‘Look-’
Mackintosh continued as if Moffat had not spoken.
‘There is also the matter of ratings - I wish we could be above such things, but with flagship shows we do have appearances to keep up.’
‘I understand that, but -’
‘And the simple, indisputable fact is that for the first time in living memory, we have a Prime Minister who is a near-universal ratings draw. He’s popular, there’s no election for a while and we both know he’s a very funny guy!’
Steven clenched his fist and snapped.
‘This isn’t about politics, Sir Cameron, I’m sure you know that.’
‘Well, Steven, I do recall you being interviewed at one of those ‘don’t negotiate the five freedoms’ rallies.’
‘Four freedoms, Sir Cameron, and with respect that was hardly as simple as a matter of politics, it was our very -’
‘Regardless of what it was, you were protesting an action by the Prime Minister and that leads me to question your judgment on this matter. Johnson will appear in the penultimate episode of this series, in an episode entitled ‘The Pillars of de Pfeffel’. He will be playing himself.’
Steven got up.
‘I won’t stand for this!’ he shouted.
‘There are plenty of others who want your job - many of them think you’ve had it too long,’ said Mackintosh icily.
Steven sighed and looked at Alfie, who was staring furiously at the floor. He couldn’t see any way out.
‘Fine,’ he said quietly, ‘what other choice do we have?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Mackintosh, clapping him on the shoulder.
And so, while news rolled in of another ‘really classic’ interview with the Prime Minister (bumping the closure of the Leyland Trucks plant to third place in the running order), Steven Moffat sat down and worked the storyline - allegedly written by the PM himself - into a script. As he got to the part where the First Lord of the Treasury carried The Doctor and Sally Sparrow out of the central mundanium reactor of the Bordon ship, he paused for a moment, then furrowed his brow.
‘So that’s how you do a simple storyline...’ he muttered to himself, ‘maybe I should do more of these.’
Alfie, nearby making coffee, wordlessly punched the air. Maybe things weren’t that bad under Boris.
'Absolutely no fucking way.'
Steven Moffat could be very petulant when he wanted to be. The young guy who’d drawn the short straw - was his name Alfie? - shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.
‘The thing is, Steven, this comes directly from the DG. We’ve been losing out in the ratings for two series straight now.’
‘And why is that?’ Moffat shot back.
Because you decided it’d be a good idea to make Rory’s first major arc a three series-long metaphorical Rubik’s Cube that required a good working knowledge of Moby Dick to appreciate, thought Alfie. His outraged boss continued.
‘I don’t have the answer, but I’ll tell you right now that the answer is not having that godawful man on my show!’
‘It’s not your show, Steven. It’s the Corporation’s,’ said a new voice as it entered the room. Steven’s assistant span round in a panic.
‘G-good evening, sir.’
‘Nice to see you again, Alfie,’ enthused the Director-General.
‘Sir Cameron,’ muttered Steven. Mackintosh smiled back at him.
‘I’m sorry for the imposition, but as you know, the Corporation has been in trouble recently. We could really use a year without a scandal, and a friend in Number 10 would be very useful.’
‘Look-’
Mackintosh continued as if Moffat had not spoken.
‘There is also the matter of ratings - I wish we could be above such things, but with flagship shows we do have appearances to keep up.’
‘I understand that, but -’
‘And the simple, indisputable fact is that for the first time in living memory, we have a Prime Minister who is a near-universal ratings draw. He’s popular, there’s no election for a while and we both know he’s a very funny guy!’
Steven clenched his fist and snapped.
‘This isn’t about politics, Sir Cameron, I’m sure you know that.’
‘Well, Steven, I do recall you being interviewed at one of those ‘don’t negotiate the five freedoms’ rallies.’
‘Four freedoms, Sir Cameron, and with respect that was hardly as simple as a matter of politics, it was our very -’
‘Regardless of what it was, you were protesting an action by the Prime Minister and that leads me to question your judgment on this matter. Johnson will appear in the penultimate episode of this series, in an episode entitled ‘The Pillars of de Pfeffel’. He will be playing himself.’
Steven got up.
‘I won’t stand for this!’ he shouted.
‘There are plenty of others who want your job - many of them think you’ve had it too long,’ said Mackintosh icily.
Steven sighed and looked at Alfie, who was staring furiously at the floor. He couldn’t see any way out.
‘Fine,’ he said quietly, ‘what other choice do we have?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Mackintosh, clapping him on the shoulder.
And so, while news rolled in of another ‘really classic’ interview with the Prime Minister (bumping the closure of the Leyland Trucks plant to third place in the running order), Steven Moffat sat down and worked the storyline - allegedly written by the PM himself - into a script. As he got to the part where the First Lord of the Treasury carried The Doctor and Sally Sparrow out of the central mundanium reactor of the Bordon ship, he paused for a moment, then furrowed his brow.
‘So that’s how you do a simple storyline...’ he muttered to himself, ‘maybe I should do more of these.’
Alfie, nearby making coffee, wordlessly punched the air. Maybe things weren’t that bad under Boris.