No prizes for Spume.

What a tragedy it is to see Her Majesty the Queen forced to act as mouthpiece for the ruling classes. My unlamented father, Sir Bufton Spume, knew her uncle, of course, back when he was Prince of Wales. David would be turning in his grave if he witnessed the vicious cuts the so-called Government are making to the poetry budget. I mean, how am I to live? It was hard enough to be reminded this morning that the Orange Prize giving do is weeks away, meaning that I can’t collect the sure thing bet I’ve got on the favourite, but then to have one’s nose rubbed in it in this way is almost more than I can bear. I’d hoped to get away to town this morning, but, there’s no prospect now, and nothing much to drink except a half bottle of Wincarnis I found in Mrs. Cutler’s pantry. I just hope the Potato Marketing Board doesn’t slash its poetry budget, or I shall be on the streets.

Seeing the Queen on telly reminded me of her sister Margaret. Do you know, she once gave me the glad-eye in the crush bar at the Royal Opera House? No word of a lie. This would have been 61, or 62, when she was after pretty much anything in trousers, but still. Terribly flattering. I would have made a move, but my wife Mimsy caught me winking at her, and put the kybosh on it. Bloody rich, in view of the fact that Mimsy was entertaining a great many gentleman callers herself, including most of the staff at the Circus, where she worked on the switchboard between shifts at The Windmill. Who knows what might have come to pass if Mimsy had let me off the leash a little? I bet you I wouldn’t have been sitting here staring into the £78 million blackhole carved out of the poetry budget by Her Majesty’s Government. No, I’d be Poet In residence on Mustique, that’s what, instead of the fucking Potato Marketing Board, no offence.

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