Once upon a time when King Charles was sitting on his throne in the west wing Khazi contemplating his radishes, Prince Harry blew up the Houses of Parliament in a more successful re-enactment of 1605.
And who was the guy, my dearies? No, regretfully not Santa Claus, nor, even more regretfully, Justin Bieber or Elvis.
It was a trick question, dearies.
‘Twas King Charles’ favourite bastard son, converted to vegetarianism by no other than our very own…ST.
No, don’t clap, dearies. Or nurse will have to sedate you with her magic wand, won’t you honey-bear? Ahem, yes, I know we could then rumble-tumble together in a lust-filled passion on the cream-coloured shag-pile carpet in front of the furnace with my magic wand at full-stretch…but we have a job to do. Later, maybe.
Now where was I?
It was budget day. Or more accurately, post-budget day. The hefty increase in turnip tax announced by a smarmy-faced Chancellor didn’t meet with universal approval according to Pussy Cunnilingus, the Page 3 topless model in the Sun newspaper.
I am not being side-tracked, honey-bear. It was a one-off, I swear.
When King Charles heard of the demise of his elected ministers on his I-phone 12V, most of whom were downing their subsidised gin and tonics in the various restaurants and bars except those who were giving dictation lessons to their secretaries, he buttoned up his radishes and sent for the Prime Minister’s wife, Goldilocks, to share his morning breakfast of cold porridge.
You’ll have to forgive my Cambridge accent dearies, tongue-twisting has its downside as well as its upside and side to sides. Here goes:
Seek out and arrest that infamous, unpublished rogue who outwitted my son at a game of Spoof held in the first–floor cellar bar of the Henley Polo Club after quaffing a record mixture of rough cider and green chartreuse. None other than the dastardly ST, masquerading as Rik Mayall bless his soul. A battalion of SAS should be enough, if not I’ll ask the US president to send over a boatload of Navy Seals--he owes me a favour since I gifted him a packet of Afghan poppy seeds.
Ah, yes. You can always stay at my humble abode if you get lonely. King-side beds and a ceiling mirror. Plus me. And my radishes.
Ah, forgive me, I’m truly upset at your loss. Your husband stood for everything that makes Britain great–apart from conniving with the Chancellor. And Angela Merkel.
How was that, dearies? Don’t look so glum. This tale has a happy ending.
ST had constructed a cunning plan after hearing about Goldilocks’ quest on his I-phone 13ST.
I said cunning, honey-bear.
Fleeing the country presented a logistical challenge, and he figured a writers retreat in Sherwood Forest, aptly described as a looney-bin location would be the ideal place to hide. Import three bears as guardians, and Goldilocks would be thwarted.
And, dearies, that what’s happened. We’re all here, safe and sound.