I’m at work. I’m bored. Make me laugh.

Trawl Rockall for:

Queen Mum: MI5 spy, psychic sausage and still very much alive

The outpourings of grief that accompanied the passing of the Queen Mother earlier this year have proven to be tears cried in vain. Today, The Rockall Times can exclusively reveal that the Queen Mother faked her own death in an audacious bid to become the svengali of the British Secret Service. Although, what may come as an even greater shock is the revelation that she has not inhabited her own carcass since 1976.

Two disgruntled former intelligence agents, whose roles at MI5 were curtailed at the behest of the Queen Mother, have blown the whistle on the sham of the century from the relative comfort of their North Derbyshire local.

"Prejudice," cried Timmy (not his real name) after two pints of Fosters and above the din of country karaoke, explaining why he has decided to go public at risk of his own life and that of his rabbit's, Gerald. "She wanted us out because she thinks we're deviants with regional accents. What she fails to realise is that, odd as we may appear, we get results."

Timmy later made clear what he meant as he removed his arctic fox fur to reveal a fetching leopard skin boob tube and a willingness to spill the beans. "Psychic spying my arse! She's obsessed, we're not good enough any more, dropped in favour in of an ESP economy drive. I mean, would we have discovered that Stevie Wonder wasn't blind if we had not been there to challenge him to a drunken game of eye-spy? Who's ever heard of positive thought bringing home that kind of bacon? I tell you, that Uri Geller has got too damn influential in the Establishment."

But why fake her own death, we ventured. "Because they got to close, too near the truth." Despite a hearty supply of alcohol, Timmy was simply too scared to explain further and left without uttering another word.

Two weeks of solid investigation later and we had tracked down another former government employee and ex-colleague of Timmy's, codenamed Tulip. Tulip was willing to talk and had better cheekbones. Having laid down his microphone through which he had just delivered a jaw-dropping rendition of "Man, I feel like a Woman", this swarthy man re-adjusted his suspenders and parked his sizable behind within licking distance of me for a confidential teat a teat.

We started where we had finished off with Timmy. What did Timmy mean they were getting "too close"? Tulip speared the glacier cherry that bobbed in his pint of Pedigree with a razor sharp pork scratching and began to talk: "Security issue old chap, in the mid 1970's it was decided that Adolf's (security officials endearingly refer to the Queen Mother as Adolf) position as an informant was compromised by the threat of abduction during one of her many public appearances. It was decided that she could be just as an effective operative if we scooped her out of her body and filled the shell with simple robotics and used it as a decoy. Adolf's entrails would then travel incognito, disguised as a congealing bottle of Baileys."

Tulip refilled his pipe, tweaked his moustache and continued: "Ever since the infamous body popping incident in Paris it was feared that the French had caught on. So we thought it best taken underground before those damn republicans created a sticky situation for us."

He promised to provide me with proof but as he did so, I began to feel woosy. I asked for details of the Original Liz's new unit. "Well, that's a state secret, so if you want to know, you'll have to be a little more... persuasive," was the intangible reply.

I awoke on a park bench stripped of my notes and with the pockets of my leather hot pants full to bursting point with unravelled Dictaphone tape. With an unusual taste lingering in my mouth, I dragged myself to the nearest bus stop, halting only to fight the cruel wind by pulling my undercover boa closer.

Within a hair's breadth of securing the most sensational scoop of the century and to be cruelly denied. Waiting for the number 46 to freedom, my job requires me only to find the next news cherry, ripe for plucking. It's the only life I know.

 Email an enemy  Pub-friendly printable version  ‘Yeast Logic’ index page