Day 2

3 am. 

I am boiling with fury. I can’t sleep because of the racket coming from those bloody kids in the park. Due to their disgusting behavior I have issued a religious decree banning any public displays of affection. Anyone breaking the new ban will be beaten to death on the spot as it was written by our great prophet — me. My advisors quickly pointed out that it is still illegal under civil law to beat anyone to death even if it is by my decree. What a drag!  So I then issued another decree banning the ban on beating people to death and then had my advisers beaten to death on the village green as a message to anyone in the future who comes to me with bad advice.

4 am. 

Here I am, counting sheep, trying to sleep. Ah, those sheep. My psychiatrist said I should avoid all thoughts of sheep to prevent the return of what he calls a fatal relapse of my ‘condition’ that left me in a jail cell.

Breakfast.

The dead bodies of my advisors have been cleared from the village green and I am breakfasting heartily while viewing the videos. Mrs T sitting opposite me peered briefly over her women’s porn magazine, Burkini Weekly, to inform me that my public  image needs an upgrade.

“You need to trim your mustache, Rey,” she said.

“I already do that!” I retorted.

“Your mustache is too modern and too grey,” she said. “You need to get rid of about two inches from either side and dye the remainder black. It’s more traditional,” she added.

“But then all I will be left with is a little black square under my nose,” I said, rather confused at this juncture. She smiled and whispered, “Exactly,” and then returned to her magazine in which several pages were mysteriously stuck together.

Shortly after breakfast I pondered on the state of security in my empire. I issued a decree ordering all the unemployed males under the age of 25 to be drafted into my new police force at once. I also reflected on my genius in jailing all the local Territorial Army officers last year for plotting to overthrow me at the village fete. They are all now in ‘investigative custody’ and they will only be released when they are old and decrepit. Actually, we do still have an independent judiciary here in Little Tallyban but he’s either propping up the bar at the Wig and Pizzle or on semi-permanent holiday at his government villa in Majorca. Until his return I have filled the empty magistrate positions with my friends from the local congregations.

Lunchtime. 

I am worried that my plan to hold the annual fete in the village square is going to be spoiled by that ungrateful riff raff who have made it their home. The idiots even relish the label riff raff. So I have issued a decree that the Brownie Pack be removed from my park and have sent in my new police recruits to educate them.  The townsfolk who have been frolicking in the fountains have been given free trips to the town’s emergency casualty clinic via ambulance. I haven’t charged them for the trip.

Afternoon chai.

Those bloody vicars are bitching about me finally giving them what I promised ten years ago – a county-wide Caliphate.  I’m more worried about the  village fete  in the square next weekend. The congregations are all moaning about the inconvenience of getting there and why I have ordered them to come. I’m PAYING them all to bloody well turn up. What more do they want? We can make up the rest of the numbers for the press kit with photoshop.

An hour later: Bloody hell. The accountant has phoned me and said we’ve run out of money because we have most of the inhabitants on the police payroll. I have borrowed 750 million from the Jewish Conspiracy to tide things over. What a bummer.

Dinnertime: 

After dining on six roasted and lightly killed  baby kittens (prepared in that order) I decreed that my local TV station should show my favorite documentary about penguins this evening. Who wants to see adolescents and children being manhandled by riot police ? I certainly don’t. And I don’t think the public should either.