We’re somewhat anti-monarchy here in the Professional Moron office. We don’t mean in a French Revolution “Guillotine the buggers!!!!” sort of way. They’re harmless enough, and despite being a bit of a bewildered individual Prince Charles is a likeable chap. So his recent attempt at “doing” the weather for BBC Scotland has gone down a storm on the internet and has swept across the globe. It has also opened up the doorway for bloggers such as us to make merry with a post. And, what ho jeeves, we’re taking full advantage of it! Orignal? No. Fun? Yes. So we take a look at this historic event and wax lyrical!
By heck! What an unusual piece of… what’s the word? Promotion? Piece of promotional duty. Imagine waking up in the morning with a steaming bloody great hangover and there’s Prince Charles doing the weather. You’d think; “Am I going through a severe batch of delirium tremens?!?!” Then Camilla joined in! Jesus H Christ if ever there was a major mind warp this was the occasion!
Just What Was Said. Verbatim? Maybe not.
“The possibility today of scatter brained rain…. lows…. career lows, career highs… who knows? Mildred would have known. But, you see here, this thing, layman, resembles that of a cloud. This means it is a cloud. Clouds are these things up in the sky that occasionally leak all sorts of stuff, usually water but, de temps en temps, it shoots bolts of searing electricity into wayward golfers. I golf regularly but, as I am here through divine right, I am spared the hot rod of truth fired from aforementioned fluffy clouds. Fluffy. Yes. What time is it? Oh yes, as you can see this thing here… hang on…. ‘Glass…go?’ Is that right? Well it’s going to rain. And in Edinburgh, where Mildred lives. So rain. From clouds. Golly, what a downright spiffing day it’s going to be!”
“I say, just where the bloody hell am I? Bloody hell! Are we live? I say! One would like to nullify the aforementioned use of blasphemy as one does not normally converse in such profane mannerisms, nor does one regularly engage in televisually based extravaganzas as this. Well one shall read this autocue. Today, one has been reliably informed, the weather shall develop at a casual rate, and by midday the races at Chepstow shall be ideal for us upper class snobs to place vast bets of money in an attempt to increase one’s personal fortune. Spiffing, I say! Spiffing! One would also like to indicate that one would like some caviar and champagne after this broadcast. Indeed. I say!”