ABDICATE! The only way The Queen can duck The Donald

A Hall fit for a Queen: you will see what we mean when you visit CVH!

It can’t be much fun being Queen. Surrounded by all those dreadful fawning people, all those hangers-on and scroungers bowing and scraping and touching forelocks, all those bloody flag-wavers, all those speeches of stultifying tedium she’s forced to spout, all those wreathes she has to lay, despite increasingly arthritic knees.

And for what? The Royal Train’s gone, meaning she’s likely to face a blocked toilet in carriage C like the rest of us; the Royal Yacht Britannia is decommissioned so it’s a cruise ship from now on and HM must join the tourist queue for overpriced egg and chips at the caff on Deck B if she’s hungry.

And now THIS: a racist, sexist, narcissistic overbearing spoilt brat of a bully has been granted the honour of a state visit!

Two faces of Trump: Jabba the Hutt and The Flatulent One




As if she hasn’t made her fair share of small talk with tyrants, demagogues, dictators and oligarchs, she now faces an uncomfortable ride up the Mall in the Royal Carriage (at least THAT’S still available!) in the company of a nasty buffoon who has all the social graces of Jabba the Hutt and could well soon send the planet spinning towards Armagedon, either through  accelerated climate change or from a sudden petulant desire to press that goddam red button.

Worse, she’ll have to take tea with the man!

Some will say it serves you right, Queenie, for being in a highly privileged, protected position. After all,  some of your less privileged subjects wonder if they can get through the winter without burning the furniture, eating the cat or putting gran ‘on the game’.

Against which you can claim,with some justification, that you never asked to be Queen and would love the opportunity on at least one day of your life to do something normal: wheel a trolley round Aldi, for instance, or punt some pin-money on a horse at your local Labrokes.

Luckily I have the solution:, a bold plan that will get you out of a tight corner, appease many a Royal critic and at the same time avert a constitutional crisis.

All you need do is send the following email to old Trumpelstiltskin . . .

Trump: I have decided to abdicate as of now, and give my son (you doubtless know him as ‘Chuck’) a crack at this ruling game. Naturally, my decision renders all of my future engagements null and void. Charles can make up his own mind on the matter, so if you hear nothing from him, I suppose that means your trip is off. Sorry about that. Just one of those things, but I’m sure you’ll find something else to do. I’ve been at this lark now for more than 70 years and quite frankly could do with something different in my twilight years.

I think that should do it, ma’am. Radicals will cheer, your average man or woman in the street will, I suspect, see you in a new human and sympathetic light and the sycophantic old guard who genuflect at every act of royalty will not have the audacity to question the wisdom of the monarch.
You can sit back, relax in a pair of trackie bottoms and let the Age of Chuck dawn!
My strong suspicion is that Charles would rather boil his head in a bedpan than permit your (sorry, his!) Prime Minister re-issue the invitation.
With a bit of luck, the Flatulent One might either sulk himself to death or go skulk in his tent for the next few years, supposing your lost continent even allows him to remain in the White House that long. For a whole host of reasons, his reign — unlike your own — could well be brief.
Whatever else, at least he your retirement will stop him coming to the UK.
And for that, God Save the Queen!


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