Prince Andrew is Being Turfed Out of Royal Lodge – Where Will He Go?

There was a time when Prince Andrew was balls deep whacking away at some prostitute procured by the Prince’s fiendish business friend Epstein on an exotic island or a yacht. Those heady days of Bacchus are far behind Andrew now, who has been thrown in the shitter of moral outrage by the alleged former highly paid escort Virginia Giuffre, and her Madam Ghislaine Maxwell. It was okay to fuck princes and ex-presidents when the money was good, but when that dried up, it was time to turn victim and go to the press and courts to extract more money, in the guise of ‘moral outrage’ and ‘victimhood’ of course. Money is undoubtedly the key to everything, and without enough money one cannot be a functioning royal any more, or even a functioning prostitute for that matter.

After a 20-year squatting session at Royal Lodge, time is up for the beleaguered Duke of York. The King is preparing to withdraw private funding for security at the 30-room property in Windsor, which Prince Andrew has lived in since 2003 and shares with his ex-wife Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York.

Where will the Duke of York Prince Andrew go next?

Here are some ideas for Prince Andrew to entertain and possibly act on.

1) Jaywick, Essex — This sleepy town has plenty of empty, burned out properties for living in. The beach promenade is littered with used syringes and condoms, and you only have to wait till it gets dark to experience the nightlife. Frequent stabbings and shootings are par for the course and if you own anything, prepare for it to be stolen within a day and sold off for drugs. The prince will feel at home in Jaywick as there are loads of prostitutes who will do anything for a piece of crack rock.

2) Grimsby — No other words can describe this place other than the word ‘grim’. It is very far from the Pizza Express in Woking. Prince Andrew will no doubt feel at home here as he will be required to wear a Burberry baseball cap and socks tucked into shellsuit bottoms, it’s either that or getting the living shit kicked out of you. The McDonald’s in Grimsby Town Centre is the key focus for the knuckle dragging locals who inhabit the area by day, the chavs committing petty crimes and publicly partaking in drugs sometimes take their Burberry shirts off and dunk in the River Freshney. By night, it is pretty much the same as the coked up chavs and chavettes breed publicly in the car parks and alley ways of Freshney Place adding a certain Attenborough feel to everything.

3) London — The capital city of Blighty used to be a nice place to live once but since the cockroach, Sadiq Khan mayor took office London’s decline has accelerated rapidly. For a start, no one speaks English any more, and crime is so rife that the Metropolitan Police have completely given up, preferring to spend their days in offices filling in useless pieces of paper that no one will ever read. If it’s not the Albanian gangsters or the Jamaican gangs who get you, it will be the hordes of Romanian gypsies who will strip every valuable from your person within seconds. Because the EU ULEZ nightmare cash-grab foisted on poor Londoners, only the very rich can now drive a petrol car or van around the city. This way, the roads are still blocked up and polluted, and public transport is completely overloaded with millions more poor souls forced to use the crumbling, expensive system. Everything in London is so expensive that the very act of living is considered a pure death. It is better to end the misery by jumping from atop one of the concrete monstrosities built by insane leftist architects in the 1970s dotted around the human prison called London. Splat! There goes another poor bastard! He took the easy way out of the city of hell.

4) Luton — This Bedfordshire city is a place that could aid in assisted dying, for to grace its awful streets and walk along the Town Centre is for some considered as one of the ring’s of hell itself. Deprivation, misery, filth and obscene levels of poverty blight this place.

5) Bradford — You may have the beautiful rolling hills of Yorkshire, and the quaint little towns and villages dotting the landscape, and then you get Bradford, a shithole so vile that many who live in this place of despair and misery happily jump off the foreboding Victorian railway bridges to escape. Amongst the nasty takeaways and Poundshops a pervasive element of drug gangs hangs over the pungent atmosphere like an unholy fart deposited from the puckered anus of Satan himself. You can buy anything in Bradford, sold by some Eastern European thug, or a junkie desperate for their next fix, maybe a bag full of cheddar cheese stolen from the supermarket, or an Xbox pilfered from some little boy’s room. Such is the depravity of this town that if there is a vision of hell itself — Bradford is it.