Garden Party

Overheard yesterday at a Buckingham Palace garden party ….

HM:   “One will have to invite him eventually, of course.”

Courtier:  “Who, ma’am?”

HM:  “That loud American with the awful hair, of course.”

Courtier:  “Mr. Trump, you mean?”

HM:  “Yes, that’s the one.  Awful creature.  Rapist, one hears.  And as for that wife of his, well, one is lost for words.”

Philip:  “I’m not.  She looks a bit of alright to me.  Lovely figure.   A big improvement on that African Amazon we’ve had to put up with for seven years.”

HM:  “Trust you to say such a thing.  And Michelle has been a delight.”

Courtier:  “Mr. Trump has not been elected yet, ma’am, if I may be so bold.”

HM:  “And one can only hope that he never is.  Frankly, I’d rather have the Chinese here again, rude as they are.”

Philip:  “Yes, even with those slitty eyes and bad teeth.”

HM:  “And better Trump, I suppose, than that silly little Labour man who wishes to abolish us all.”

Philip:  “He’s the one who should be abolished.  I’m told he smells, by the way.  Looks a bit ratty, I must say.  Probably needs a good bath, if he’s got one.”

Courtier:  “Mr. Corbyn will have to be invited, I’m afraid, ma’am, smell or no smell.  He is, after all, the leader of Her Majesty’s loyal opposition.”

HM:  “Loyal opposition!  One hasn’t seen much loyalty from him.  He’d behead the lot of us, starting with me.  So tell me, why should one show loyalty to him?”

Courtier:  “It’s the custom, ma’am.”

HM:  “Well, it’s a custom that ought to be changed.  I shall talk to the Prime Minister about it at our weekly chat.  He, at least, is one of us; or thinks he is, which is the next best thing.”

Philip:  “I wish we could bring back the divine right of kings, while we’re at it.  Back in the old days we could invite whomever we bloody-well liked.  The place is like a railway station these days, always filled with the great unwashed – queers and villains half of them.”

HM:  “Yes, bad enough one has to stop to chat to all those dreadful pop stars.  I’m so glad one wears gloves for these occasions.  Otherwise one would have to constantly wash one’s hands.”

Courtier:  “We must go over to meet the New Zealand High Commissioner, ma’am, Sir Fowell Cheeseman, if you remember.”

Philip:  “Oh, yes.  Foul Cheese.  Looks like one, doesn’t he, all blue veined and crumbling.  Ha, ha!  He’ll no doubt be gloating over not having to remove the Union Jack from their flag, pompous old fool.  And a republican in sheep’s clothing, I’ll warrant.”

HM:  “Still, one must be grateful that one’s honoured flag will not be replaced by what looks like a weed.”

Courtier:  “Yes, ma’am, and I think congratulations may be in order.”

HM:  “Oh, there’s that fat man from Tangyanika, the one who passed wind loudly at the banquet for the Commonwealth leaders last week.  What is his name?  Obingo Odingo, or something like that.”

Courtier:  “It is called Tanzania now, ma’am.  And you may be thinking of Oginga Odinga from Kenya, a few years back.”

Philip:  “They all sound the same to me.  Look the same, too.  All have their snouts in the trough.  Our money, too.  No wonder they’re all bloody enormous.

HM:  “Now then, Philip.  One wishes you to be on your best behaviour today.  One never knows who’s listening these days.  One doesn’t wish to find oneself splashed across the Sun newspaper tomorrow, does one?”

Courtier:   “Discretion is always the soul of virtue, ma’am, if I may be so bold.”

HM:  “Ah, Sir Cheddar how delightful to see you again ….”