A right Royal palaver

Not a lot of people know this about me, but I’m actually of royal blood. My real dad is a guy called God – he’s like the King of this place Heaven? Major big deal.

He sent me down to earth to spread peace, love and good vibes, and also brutally kill and dismember all of Take That if I get the chance. “But don’t stress it if you don’t get around to that one, Dazzler”: those were the last words of my pops, God, before I hopped on a cloud-bus and scooted down to your planet.

By the way all this is top, top, TOP secret, so I’m swearing several thousand U magazine readers to silence.

The reason I mention it is because the royals have been in the news loads lately, especially because of Kate and Wills’ impending bundle of joy. This boy or girl is, quite literally, heir to the throne, and not just in the sense that some dingbat who owns a carpet warehouse will hold up his infant and declare proudly, while pointing at Rugs-R-Us Discount Vortex of Death, “Someday all this will be yours, my child. You shall inherit it all.”

The royal baby really will inherit a throne, a crown, one of them Bo Peep-style crooked stick things with jewels all over it, a flipping big castle, a few more flipping big castles, and some other stuff I couldn’t be bothered to list off here. Servants and land and the right to whip the Chancellor of the Exchequer with a cat-o’-nine-tails down the Olde Kente Roade for scurvy treason, that sort of thing.

But is it right, this institution of inherited privilege? Should Baby Katwill be given all that wealth just because of who their parents are – or to be specific, their father?

I think you should have to apply for the role of royal. Now, I have no problem with the childer of existing monarchs getting first dibs, and if they pass the test fair play to them, they get the job. But if they prove not up to the mark, we give someone else a try.

First up, a questionnaire. Do you like eating quail? Can you ride a horse? Do you look a bit like a horse? If male, is your name Henry, John, George or William? If female, is it Elizabeth, Catherine or Anne? Do you have someone dress you every morning? Do you believe that the concept of social equality is bad? Are you likely to be shoved up against the wall and executed in the event of a revolution?

If you answered Yes to all of the above, you’re halfway there.

Next, the physical test. You must shoot a pigeon from the sky while snorting in an odd kind of way, guffawing loudly at something quite hilarious Esmeralda said about Tarquin, and slapping a working-class oik about the head for daring to address you common. Oh, and you must be squiffy on champagne at the time.

If you can manage to do all this while still retaining enough bodily co-ordination to commandeer the old man’s Bentley and drive it through the front door of Tossingley Manor, you’re two-thirds of the way there.

Next, the audition. Can you sing stupid rugby songs, if male? Or do side-splitting impersonations of chavs you’ve seen on telly, if female? Alternatively, dress up as a Nazi or African chief, complete with “black” face, and go to a fancy dress party, with absolutely no sense of shame.

If you can do this, you’re almost there.

The final test: genealogy. We must be sure to get the right kind of blood on the throne, eh? So: are all your ancestors related to each other quite closely? And are you fairly likely to marry someone you’re related to? And have children whose genes are so completely fubar that it’s a miracle they’re not born with 12 toes and four heads?

If you answered yes, then congrats: you’re ideally qualified to be a royal!

Of course, here in Ireland we don’t got no aristocracy, having bombed the baxterds out the country in 1920 or thereabouts. But we do have a Presidency, on which we vote every seven years.

The only problem with this is that the public are, by and large, a shower of morons who can’t be trusted to do the right thing. It’d be much better if I just picked a president-for-life, right here and now, and then the nation can get back to me when this one dies and we need a new one.

And our new overlord is: me.

Oh go on, you knew I was going to say that. Anyway I already have the kingly beard, the megalomania, the 12 toes, and I simply adore eating quail and beating the plebs. Or eating plebs and beating quail, whatever.


First published in U Magazine December 17 2012


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