“Bloody hell Anne luv, why is it every single time we pop across to Richmond Park for a spot of stag hunting you have to get your kit off and hug a tree? It’s doing me head in and mores to the point the courtesan’s are having a right royal laugh behind me back. This thing just has to stop.” 

“Oh Henner’s my King, Lord and Master it’s just that I am so very into holistic healing presently and the benefits to the soul embracing mother nature brings. Being naked and having a bit of a swoon in the company of, say, an elm I absorb its life energies hugging thus and take comfort looking upwards to the sprawling branches overhead. You really ought to give it a go. It would calm you Sire.” 

“Bollocks it would! Anyway I am starving. Fancy a bit of breast of swan luv washed down with a flagon of England’s finest strong ale?” 

“No Sire I’ll just have a mineral water and a brace of plums for I find the very concept of stuffing my gob with swan repugnant. In point of fact I shall pass on nosh for even now as I speak I spot an ancient oak ahead of us that must be hundreds of year’s old and seen so much history in its time – the urge to have a jolly good hug overwhelms me. I must feel the different bark textures with the palms of my hands and have its scent about my person.” 

“All very well you saying that but I bet the bloody oak hasn’t had the stark bollock naked Queen of England fucking straddling it before. Crikey, the oak will be dining out on that – I can hear it now, ‘Oi, Horse Chestnut me old mucker guess what I just copped an eyeful of?’ ‘No mate what’s that?’ ‘Only Queen Anne’s knockers, that’s what!’ ‘Blige you lucky bastard.’ Stuff like that. This is bloody ludicrous. For God’s sake get dressed – you’re an embarrassment to the realm.” 

“I will not. Can you find it in your heart to at least let me hug a birch?” 

“I suppose so if it keeps the fucking peace. But try and maintain a bit of decorum – you know, at least wear a gown till you get to the tree of your choice for I can’t have every Tom, Dick and Harry gawping at me starker’s missus can I?  Remember last week when you took it upon yourself to flit across Petersham Meadows in the raw to hug some random Weeping Willow down by the riverside. What a debacle that was what with it being the Westminster choir boy’s picnic day out. At a stroke – so the speak – you stole their very innocence. Anyway I’m going for a slash.” 

“Do not tell me Sire that you intend to relieve yourself upon a tree trunk?” 

“Well luv I don’t see any public lavvy’s in the vicinity do you?” 

“That’s beside the point. It would be sacrilege to treat a tree thus.” 

“Divine Right my dear – I can do as I please in these parts. Also me prostate is playing up a bit the net effect of which is that I really have no choice in the matter.” 

“You must be off your head to even contemplate such a terrible crime against Mother Earth. If you are to widdle you could at least seek out a conifer for I have little time for those season defying rogues.” 

“Do what? ‘Off me head’ you say?  Two way street that one luv if you get me drift!” 

For more utter drivel of a similarly appalling standard please visit 

Also, there is a ‘like’ button at the bottom of this page for the Soz Satire Facebook page – the virtual reality ‘Stately Home of Lunacy’ and a place where the drivelling’s of many a nutter are stored within its magnificent Gothic library!  Feel free to take a visit – and do remember as Charles Dickens himself once said, “Every time you ‘like’ this page a London child is extracted from a chimney. Honest!”



  1. I was going to share this on Facebook but I only have one friend and he can’t stand you. I have however Twittered it and shared it on Stumbleupon, where it will remain alongside literally hundreds of my skits, unread, unloved and unstumbled. Do I win £5.00?

  2. This is how history ought to have been writted. Probably wouldn’t have been thrown out of class if the lessons were constructed thusly. Loved it sir. And liked it – thereby releasing a wee urchin from his sooty sarcophagus – to wreak havoc upon the good burghers of Londen. Blast that Dickens chap.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s