Auntie Doris’s Twelve Days of Christmas. #7: Seven Swans a Swimming



If anyone ever offers you seven Swans for Christmas, slam the ruddy door in their face. Then tell them through the letterbox to get rid of them as quickly as possible. Preferably by taking them back to where they got them from, and setting them free. On no account should they be taken into a private residence, and in absolutely no circumstances should anyone ever wring one’s ruddy neck, pluck it, cook it and eat it, even if they are supposed to be delicious and contain more vitamins and iron than fourteen boxes of cornflakes. Tell them to get rid, because all Swans legally belong to the Queen of England. And anyone found fiddling about with a swan is guilty of treason, and is liable to be hung, drawn and quartered by law, have their head displayed on a pike outside Buckingham Palace, and their giblets donated to Her Majesty’s Prison Service to make stew for convicts. Those people who think they are safe because they live in a foreign country and/or are not even English have another think coming. Her Britannic Majesty probably has an extradition treaty with your country, and if not, she will probably swap you for some geek who has hacked into the pentagon on his ZX Spectrum. If you are not from America, she will send the full force of the British Army, and any allies that she can muster to drag you out of whatever bunker or cave you are hiding in and humiliate you before slitting your throat with a rusty razor. That is how much the queen and the rest of the landed gentry in England care about swans. Its just a shame that they don’t have the same attitude to foxes and badgers. (And weasels) There are plenty of other presents available to steal from the local park or nature reserve. Flowers are always nice. Or a picnic table. If you have the means to transport such an item, there are still plenty of statues of Queen Victoria, or her husband Prince Albert, which would look nice in most medium sized gardens, and have the advantage of frightening burglars when it is dark. Just leave the ruddy swans alone. Uncle Raymond’s Christmas Cracker Cackle of the Day. “She was only the organist’s Daughter, but she almost went into anaphylactic shock when she found a B flat in her toccata.”

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