Once upon a time, far far away – just as well for it’s aye freezin’ here – there wis an Emperor wi’ issues. He had nae self-confidence, nae self esteem, nae brains, and he wis a wimp. He just couldnae get over the fact that he was a wee fat baldy bastard.
‘Ah look like a pink jelly baby,’ says he.
‘Naw ye don’t. Jelly babies ur cute and sweet,’ says his wife. ‘But ye look awright tae me.’
‘Are ye blind or whit?’ says the Emperor. ‘A’m in urgent need of a make-over.’
‘A make-over widnae hack it,’ says she. ‘Cosmetic surgery wid be more like it.’
‘A’m gonnie make masel’ look the business wi’ millions a’ designer gear and a bit o’ bling, then A’ll look grand and important.’
‘That’ll be some job,’ says she, hopin’ he wouldnae look like a right clown. ‘Nae bargains fae Primark fur you then.’
So the Emperor hired the best tailors in the land, and had tons of clothes made o’ the finest materials. He ended up wi’ that many clothes, he needed three rooms in his palace tae hing them aw up. Every day he changed his oufit fur every different thing he did: new clothes fur breakfast, change fur lunch, change fur each meeting, ye get the idea. He spent half the day puttin’ on and takin’ aff clothes.
‘For fuck sake,’ says the wife, ‘huv ye no got enough noo? Yer ponsin’ aboot there like a big Jessie, an’ as fur they man bags, they’re no man bags at aw, they’re big wumens’ handbags.’
‘A’ve never seen a big wuman wi’ a bag like mine,’ says he.
‘Och ye don’t get it, dae ye, ya daft eedjit? Everybody stares at ye noo.’
Aye, some of his outfits wur more eye-catchin’ than Lady Ga Ga’s.
‘That wis ma intention,’ says he tae her. ‘A’ve still got a pile o’ fabric waitin’ tae get made intae more outfits.’
‘Oor hoose is a palace, no a fuckin’ walk-in wardrobe,’ says she, fair pissed off.
Noo, a lyin’ cheatin’ swindler got tae hear aboot the Emperor and his love of clothes, and how the Emperor wis a big hit fur himsel’ these days, thinkin’ he wis the best dressed, best lookin’ smug bastard in the land. So him bein’ a swindler, he pretended to be a tailor and went tae meet the Emperor.
‘Ye look no bad, but Ah can make ye the finest gear ye ever seen, ‘ says the swindler. ‘Ye’ll be the coolest, hippest bastard around. Ye see, A’m on one a’ they Workfare schemes. A’m a qualified bankster, but while A’m look fur a real job A’m a tailor fur Stitch ‘Em Up Ltd., and Ah huv tae work ma baws aff fur nae money.’
‘That’ll do me,’ says the Emperor.
‘See ma fine cloth,’ says the swindler, holdin’ out his arms wi’ fuck all in them.
Well, the Emperor didnae want tae seem glaechit, so he pretended he could see the cloth, but he couldnae. ‘Aye, that’s pure excellent,’ says he, thinkin’ he must be goin’ aff his heid. ‘A’d like ye tae get tae work right away.’
He geed the swindler a room in the palace, wi’ a top o’ the range digital sewin’ machine, but he still didnae gee him any money cos he wis workin’ fur the schemin’ government – Ah mean he wis on a government scheme. Noo, after a couple o’ weeks the Emperor ordered his Prime Minister tae go and see how the new clothes were comin’ along. So the Prime Minister went intae the sewin’ room, and couldnae see fuck all. No wanting tae seem thick as cold porridge, he says, ‘Aye, they’re smashin’. When will they be ready?’
‘Soon,’ says the swindler, fur he wis a lyin’ wee tosser.
Noo, the Emperor arranged fur a procession tae show off his new fashionable wardrobe. All the people of the land came oot tae see his new gear, and the fashion designers were there wi’ their sketch pads, ready tae copy his ideas an’ put them on sale in the high street shops that wurnie shut doon yet.
The swindler arrived wi’ the new clothes, which didnae actually exist, and told the Emperor tae try them on. The Prime Minister wis invited tae watch an’ give his opinion, before the big parade.
‘Does this outfit make me look grand and important?’ the Emperor asked, as he went through the motions of puttin’ clothes on. ‘Do Ah look like a real Emperor?’
Ye look like a real fuckwit, thought the swindler. But he said, ‘Aye, ye look magnificent.’
‘Ye look fine an’ dignified,’ says the Prime Minister. It wis the biggest lie he’d ever told, an’ that wis a monumental achievement, let me tell ye.
Finally, the Emperor wis ready. At noon precisely, the palace doors opened and oot he came. He marched along the streets, fair chuffed wi’ himsel’, delighted by the gasps of the crowd. ‘A’ve cracked it!’ thought he, ‘They must be well impressed, goin’ by the astonished looks on their coupons.’ The men bowed and the women curtsied as he passed, and they called out compliments like: Yer fair swanky so ye ur, That’s a braw ootfit, and, What a lovely man bag! But the whole fuckin’ lot a’ them should a’ gone tae Specsavers, cos the Emperor was bollocks naked. There he wis, parading doon the street thinkin’ he looked fabie-doo in his finery, when actually he wis as naked as a porn star in a manky movie.
But one wee boy wisnae frightened tae tell the truth. ‘Wid ye look at the state o’ that!’ shouts he, pointin’ tae the Emperor’s dinky winkie, hingin’ oot like a wee pork sausage. ‘He’s got nae clothes on!’
‘Wid that no gee ye the boke,’ says his maw.
All of a sudden the crowd started tae laugh, fur they saw that the boy wis right. The Emperor wis marching doon the street wi’ his droopy man boobs, his big roon belly an’ his wee fat arse aw wobblin’ like marshmallow mountains. Whit a sight he was! In nae time the crowd wis laughin’ their heids aff an’ pointin’ tae the spectacle.
Well, the poor Emperor had never been so humiliated in his nelly puff. But instead o’ runnin’ away like timid wee wanker, he stood proud and walked back tae the palace wi’ his head held high. His bits were still wobblin’ but he didnae give a toss. Like magic, he’d found his self confidence, his self esteem, and the courage he’s always lacked.
Noo, A’d like tae tell you they all lived happily ever after, but it wisnae so A’m afraid. The swindler got prosecuted by Trades Descriptions, the Emperor caught pneumonia wi’ bein’ oot wi’ nae clothes on, and the Prime Minister told the truth and died o’ shock.