Prince Phillip was bloody uncomfortable. He’d been walking around with a rather stonking erection for at least three days and there was nothing he could do about it. He’d tried whacking it with a cold spoon, putting copious amounts of ice packs on it and even shutting it in the Royal Carriage’s door, but to no avail. The bloody thing wouldn’t go down and The Queen refused to go near it – or, indeed, him while he was still engorged. The worst thing was that the corgis seemed to think that he was offering them a tasty, meaty treat and he thanked his lucky stars that they were very small dogs and couldn’t jump quite high enough. Phillip longed to go back to the days when his favourite concubine would ease his sexual frustration, but she had long retired and nobody would fill that position, since he had become so old, tortoise-like and cantankerous.
It had all started when he had decided to venture away from the BBC for the first time in his life and had, in boredom, clicked over to Channel 5, just after midnight. What he saw on his huge LCD screen would stay with him for the rest of his life… and so would his Royal stiffy, he mused, sadly. He’d seen plenty of breasts before, but they were usually floppy and unattractive as they usually belonged to Lillibet or some bloody Aboriginal woman who was doing some bloody dance which he then had to pretend to be bloody interested in. They weren’t the fake, perfectly round, American breasts he happened to see on Channel 5 which now haunted his every waking moment with their persistent perkiness.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. Jumping up (but not too quick – he’d learned his lesson after rising swiftly from the dinner table yesterday, nearly ripping his blue-blooded boner off), he bounded over to the door to see who had come to visit him. Starved of company for days on end because of his “condition”, he was just happy to have someone to talk down to. He opened the huge, oak door and there, in a ridiculously short mini-skirt, was a smiling Sarah Ferguson. Well, that was it. Phillip’s manhood wilted like a dying flower and he became Mr. Floppy again in a matter of seconds. The pole holding up his trouser love-tent had completely disappeared. “Fergie!”, he grinned, “I have literally never been so happy to see you!”. “Really!?!”, she replied, “so, can I come in?” Phillip laughed heartily. “Don’t push your bloody luck, bitch!” he bellowed happily, and slammed the door in her wobbly face.
Still beaming, he picked up his favourite magazine, “Bigot Monthly”, and settled down to have a nice, comfortable, flaccid read. “Send ’em all back home, innit”, he muttered contentedly, sucking on a nice, fat spliff.
Join us next week for more racist, erection-based hilarity, when Prince Phillip mistakenly walks in on Kate Middleton showering and calls the President of Uganda a “Nig-Nog”.