Free The Digested Twenty-first Century by John Crace

miscarriage, her days as Queen are numbered. And not a moment too soon, though obviously he balances this thought with regret at how much he misses his own wife.
    ‘Tell me, Master Smeaton,’ Thomas asks of one of the Queen’s courtiers.
    ‘Did you make love to the Queen?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ squeals Smeaton.
    ‘And you’re not just saying that because I’ve put you in the Tower near the torture chamber?’
    ‘Oh no, my Lord! Her Majesty is a right goer. She’s shagged absolutely everyone, including her brother.’
    The Master Secretary sighs. He does not want to see so many go to the block when his wife’s death’s on his mind, but if they will confess of their own free will, what can he do? He walks purposefully towards the King’s bedchamber and tells him: ‘The Queen’s head has unfortunately become detached from her body. Your marriage is annulled and you are free to marry Jane.’
    ‘I knew I could rely on you, Crumb,’ Henry laughs.
    Thomas retires to Stepney to count his royalties with Hilary. ‘Please take your time over the last volume,’ he begs her. ‘I’d like some time to enjoy my wealth before I, too, get the chop.’
    Digested read, digested: Bring Up the Booker.
Lionel Asbo

by Martin Amis (2012)
    2006: Dear Jennaveieve, I’m havin’g an affair with my Gran. The sex is grea’t but Im worried that my uncle Lionel will thin’k there is somefing wron’g wiv me shaggin’g hi’s Mum. I dont know why cos shes only 39 as she ha’d her fir’st child when she was 12 and me own Mum had me at 12 so I is actua’lly startin’g well late as I am 15. Your’s Desmond Pepperdine.
    Des was less sure if he would send this letter to the Morning Lark’s Page 3 Stunna Agony Aunt than he was about whether he needed help from Mart with his apostrophes. ‘The thing is,’ said Mart, ‘I know – or care – nothing for the lower orders, so my attitude towardsyou is a mixture of contempt and patrician sentimentality. But I’ve always said that punctuation is the key to social mobility.’ Des looked up guiltily as Uncle Lionel entered the room. ‘I’ve just changed me fuckin name to Lionel Asbo,’ he snarled, ‘to celebrate the fact I was the youngest kid to get an Asbo at the age of three. Now wheres they fucking pitbulls? I need them to rip out the throat of your nonce friend Rory who’s been taking liberties by knockin off me Mum.’
    2008: Nothing had happened to the literati of west London in the intervening years, but in Diston where Lionel and Des lived, the mayhem that invariably accompanies the criminal underclasses had proceeded with gratifying regularity. Rory had gone awol, Lionel had discovered his bird Gina was getting one from his best mate Marlon and had gone berserk at their wedding, and half the residents of Diston had ended up in Wormwood Scrubs in the ensuing fracas.
    ‘I have to inform you, Asbo,’ the governor said, ‘that you have just won £140,000,000 on the lottery.’
    ‘Fuck me,’ Lionel replied, ‘I suppose that means Mart is going to make me owt ter be even more of a caricature of a chav van before.’
    ‘Well that just shows what a moronic oik you are,’ Mart drawled, ‘because you have no concept of Swiftian satire.’
    Des had long since absorbed Mart’s tips on punctuation and had gone to university, so he was in a position to wonder if it was Mart who had no concept of Swiftian satire, but he kept that thought to himself as he now had a respectable girlfriend and was still worried Lionel might discover he had once shagged his Gran.
    2010: ‘Your Gran’s so fuckin old now she’s got demencha,’ said Lionel. ‘I’ve packed her off to a care home.’ Des knew that even in Diston the average life expectancy was more than 43, but he had a job working for the Daily Mirror and Dawnie was pregnant, so he had other things to think about other than being patronisedby Mart. ‘You’re a fuckin’ disappointin’ nonce to me, Des,’ Lionel continued, ‘but