BEYOND THE IMPLODE 3 - BRITISH AIRWAYS 0

It is now that we settle down and turn our attentions to one of the greatest episodes of British history ; for as sure as there is a time to drink, laugh, spin records and play the old soak, so there is also a time to be stern, studious and straight down the line. As will shortly become evident, I offer up this post with the sole, selfless aim of educating the scores of internationally-based youngsters who trawl aimlessly through cyberspace, looking to net the slightest seahorse of wisdom in the bleak ocean of piss and shit that passes for the 'Information Superhighway'.

Not that the promotion of education is always appreciated. While some readers, knowing full well that they remain caked in the dirt of ignorance and superstition, reach voluntarily for the Shampoo of Reason and revel in the Shower of Education, others cock a snook at self-advancement! Sadly, some young men cannot be told anything these days ; these braggarts believe that a bit of chest-thumping qualifies them to play the pipes with Pan ; a wank and a hangover, and they'll tell you they've surfed the cosmos.....of course, when these young bucks bring a girl home to cook her a romantic dinner - no, don't laugh, these gallahs think they know everything! - they expose themselves as nothing but cretinous little fools, making such stomach-turning mistakes as serving prawns with a pint of bitter. No wonder their dates laugh and mock these so-called 'suitors' ; a higher level of sophistication (and culinary skill) could be found in a spent nappy. And let us not neglect those stupid wee girls who, having given education the two fingers in favour of a wasted youth of drooling over rubbish 'pet fashion' magazines - sneering at the works of Petronius, Marlowe and Beckett as they instead coo and swoon over glossy shots of bejewelled, fat siamese cats in fishnets! - now find themselves at destitution's door, their looks faded, eeking out a meagre pittance by knitting jumpers for hairless dogs in France. Where are the jeers you needle-clicking, old-before-your-time hags once heaped upon the studious girls - who have all since bloomed into highly desirable, sexy, intelligent women, with a herd of rich, handsome and cultured men fawning at their ankles - while you now resemble, in terms of appearance and olfaction, a trout, roasted in a pan of pee?

So, having established that you, dear reader, are a seeker of truth and knowledge, having bothered to read this far instead of breaking into a sweat and retreating to some frivolous site about German hip hop, BTi now proudly presents - the glorious life and tragic downfall of Edward II, Britain's noblest monarch!

Few English royals have not deserved assassination. Casting our eyes over the year 1381, we learn of the Peasants' Revolt, a nationwide working class anti-Poll Tax uprising - and how King Richard II, a precocious little shit who should have been learning his alphabet instead of fucking around on the back of a horse, fobbed off the rebels at Smithfield with a load of lies, lured them into a trap and later OK'd the arrests and executions of a number of participants.

I can't say for sure whether he also arranged the murder of his daughter-in-law in an occult ritual, but if the brat did descend to such depths of depravity, it'd be no worse than the filth we've had to endure from the current monarch, Elizabeth II, over the past 54 years. I also can't say for sure how long this incarnation of Beyond the Implode will survive online ; however, if you happen to be reading this in 2051, and 'Fuhrer Harry' currently spiritually presides over the UK's first ever Christian Democrat / British National Party coalition government, you may be forgiven for thinking that previous spores in the royal lineage weren't actually 'that bad' (((but personally I predict Harry dead on a dancefloor by the end of 2009 - wanna bet?)))

But there's one king and one alone who makes every red and white blood cell swell with pride - the glorious Edward II! Edward wasn't interested in butchering the Scottish ; he was into far more refined pleasures. After his father - a miserable old Celtophobic twat - kicked the bucket, Edward didn't waste any time in shipping a studmuffin called Piers Gaveston, a scalliwag skilled in all types of mischief, over to Engerlund. The two lusty libertines soon succeded in pissing off nearly every baron and bishop in the realm, by blowing the country's war funds on parties so decadent I can scarcely bring myself to type about them, were it not for the fact that the responsible blogger owes it to his readers to unturn all available stones in our mutually agreed quest for the truth.

One of Edward's and Gaveston's favourite party tricks, so history records, was to wank themselves off into a steel trough, until the unholy vessel was overflowing with manfat. These jokers would then dunk trainee clerics' heads into the goo, and send them howling down the stairs, in the direction of Queen Isabella, 'the she-wolf of France', who Edward II had reluctantly agreed to marry. Now, we can all do a David Aaronovitch and laugh at Muslims for "arranged marriages", but this practice is in fact as English as egg, chips and beans! Isabella, who was heavily pregnant at the time, and spent most nights sitting weeping in a wicker chair while Edward and Gaveston romped away under the royal duvet, assumed that the spunk-haired, screaming acolytes were ghosts conjured from the very bowels of Hades, and nearly fired her damn foetus across the room in shock! -much to our perverted Plantagenet's delight!

As we know, our current royal family consists of a bunch of inbred lightweights. Prince Andrew thought he was a "real rebel" and "jolly out of order" by dating some ugly old porn queen called Koo Stark, back in the early 1980s. However, this is nothing compared to the scam Edward II pulled when Isabella's father, Philip IV of France, demanded a portrait of his absent daughter, just to make sure she was being afforded the best of treatment from the king. This raving mad anti-Semite had insisted that the duo get hitched when they were both children, in order to bind France to England after years of hate 'n' war.

But behold the bold satyr squatting on Albion's throne! The official artist, having arrived from France in a state of great weariness, was drugged and tricked into painting a large portrait of Edward and Gaveston inserting their appendages into the ears of a cow! Suffice to say, the king of France had a stroke when the picture was unveiled, and ordered the artist to be crushed to death by some fat Gallic brutes, jumping up and down on an old oak door .

Another good wheeze was the time Edward took Isabella on holiday to Scotland - the equivalent, nowadays, of jumping a plane to Baghdad. Edward wasn't interested in scrapping with the Scots, most of whom were tearing through the ranks of the English army like a gang of Hell's Angels at a Mods For Jesus rally.

One afternoon, he declared to the shit-terrified queen that he was going into the woods "to fetch a Scottish scalp" with his old mate, the rascal Hugh le Dispenser. The two had no intention of fighting anyone- they instead decided to have a quick fist fuck, before smearing a pot of blood-red henna over their faces and chests. Bursting out of the bushes, screaming "Run! Else we are killed!", the two scoundrels caused the unhappy queen to pass out in disbelief. When she came to, she had to make her own way back home, through enemy lines - the king was too busy celebrating summer solstice at Stonehenge....with a spot of avisodomy!

Eventually, Isabella'd had enough. She teamed up with the wretched traitor Roger Mortimer - may the devil take his worthless sphincter! - and planned to attack England from France, in order to halt Edward's fun. They even ponced some additional troops off a Dutch loser called William III. Sadly, Edward was captured and, in 1327, executed by the homophobic Mortimer, who insisted on shoving a red-hot poker up the king's arse. England's greatest monarch now lay dead, his bowels sizzling like an egg on a junction box.

And so it is that, nearly 700 years later, we recall the life and times of this most splendid and dedicated libertine. Let every true Englishman raise a can of Kestrel Super to the ceiling, kick his cowering wife back into the car boot and toast the memory of Edward II ; ne'er a merrier king reigned, nor we'll see the likes of again!