Even more dispatches from Noel Gallagher’s not-top-security-enough case files. Oh, you haven’t heard? Amateur sleuth Noel Gallagher has been A.) commissioned and ordered by the British Royal Crown to investigate the mystery around Kate Middleton’s disappearance while B.) having to work with his estranged brother, Liam. So far they’ve interviewed the remaining Royals, interviewed their professional doubles and slept in the palace. He posts infrequently, but that’s fine, because his progress is infrequent as well.
Day 11.5: Another cracker of a fucking day. So me and RKid, we get wind of these secret tunnels running about through Kensington, and together we said, “I’m having that.” Say what you will about our relationship, but here? Least we found something to agree about.
The problem came in finding them. They’re secrets, naturally, so it’s not like they appear on any map. But it hits my brother, the fucking genius, “We get into disguises and follow the fuckers through to them passages.”
At this point, should I have stopped the whole enterprise? Was it worth all this mucking about? I mean, what was I gonna fucking learn about our wayward princess by skulking around some dingy, dusty fucking tunnels? How do I know anything worthwhile will be down there just ‘cause they’re fucking secrets? On the other hand, they ARE fucking secrets, and my mind was dead set on seeing them.
The “easiest” (meaning “most obvious”) choice of costumes were the Beefeaters, seeing as we’d already clocked their laundry area. The Singer bribes one of the cleaners to let us nick some jackets and hats, and we were just about off.
Emphasis on “just fucking about.” You could dress my brother in a full gorilla suit with mask and all, cover up every spitting bit of his arse so nobody could see who it was, but as soon as he has to move or fucking speak, the fucking jig is tits up. So who does it fall to for getting this plan in working order? Only the same unlucky fucker who wrote the biggest albums of the Nineties, thank you. I coached RKid on every bit, as I’d done countless times prior (not true; I have counted and likely so have you). Still, a dollop of small delight was captured in watching him struggle to get one of those giant hats over his even-more-massive skull.
We waited for a change in the guard because that made the most sense in this mad plan. Then a few of the guards peeled away, so we peel, too. They go downstairs, so do we. They stow their spears, so do we. Then one of them starts humming a Robbie Williams song and my brother can’t hack it. Suddenly, Mr. Super Disguise is all, “Come off it, you cunts, we can’t be having that shite ‘round here” and our day was cooked.
More to come as this fake story surely unfolds in more fake ways.