WE ARE QUITE AMUSED

Hello, and welcome to the March edition of The Autolycan.  A bit later than usual this month, and anagram corner has gone AWOL - sorry about that but it's getting harder to find the time with so much going on in the UK City of Culture!  As I think most regular readers will know this has got off to a brilliant start, and is showing no signs of flagging.  If you haven't yet visited, do make a point of doing so.  Keep an eye on the website - www.hull2017.co.uk - but beware, some popular shows are sellouts already.  Whether there will be time for an April version of The Autolycan remains to be seen!

Anyway, to the March edition.  I loved this item about an American chap laying claim to the British throne.  What lay behind that, I wondered?  As ever, do please pass the link on if you like this, Like it on Facebook and so on.  Many thanks.

WE ARE QUITE AMUSED

An American took out an advertisement in The Times last week to give the Royal Family thirty days' notice of his intention to claim the British throne.

The Week

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth ll, feeling slightly disoriented, opened her eyes. Focussing as best she could on the television screen in front of her, the realisation slowly dawned that this was no longer the news coming to her from dear dependable Huw Edwards; rather it had morphed into something very loud and very unfunny, notwithstanding its own – clearly misplaced – belief that it was very loud and very funny. Her eyes searched for the remote. When she failed to find it she reached for a voluminous card index file on the table adjacent to her easy chair, consulted it, punched a couple of buttons on a console and waited. Moments later there was a knock on the door.

'Come.'

The door opened and a tall, upright man of military bearing marched in. He bowed once from the neck.

'How may I be of assistance, Your Majesty?'

The Queen peered uncertainly at him.

'One summoned one's Master of the Remote. You clearly are not he. Whom am I addressing?'

'Ma'am, the Master of the Remote sadly passed away some ten years ago, but as a mark of respect to a loyal servant he was never removed from his office. I am the Yeoman Warder of the Queen's Remote in Ordinary and his unworthy deputy.'

The Queen sniffed.

'In Ordinary? Oh well, see if you can find the damned thing anyway.'

His expert eye swept the room locating the missing remote immediately. Its exact whereabouts presented him with a delicate communication challenge but one for which his exhaustive training had well prepared him.

'Ma'am, I believe it may be on the sovereign's chair close to her right hand, but obscured from view by the folds of her attire. Should I summon the Mistress of the Robes?'

Her Majesty retrieved the remote and handed it to him.

'That will not be necessary. Zap.'

He zapped, and returned the instrument. She nodded briefly.

'That will be all.'

By now wide awake, the Queen pondered the events of the day. Lunch with the Crown Prince of somewhere with a foreign sounding name – she forgot what or where exactly – had been going rather well, they had moved on to the spotted dick and thick yellow custard without embarrassment – 'one has it with the skin, you know' she had informed her guest – until the attention of Philip's minder was momentarily distracted, allowing his charge the opportunity to enquire mischievously whether the Crown Prince's countrymen still resolved their differences by eating each other. Fortunately a major diplomatic row and exchange of Stern Notes was averted by her trusty Garter Sergeant of Conflict Resolution, formerly a ceremonial post only but one which had shouldered an increasingly heavy burden and even spawned a number of deputies and assistants as Philip grew older.

After that she'd had to endure her weekly audience with that dreadful May woman. What was her beloved Kingdom coming to? Not so long ago little Cameron - she had found it fairly easy to hold out against the repeated invitations to call him Dave – had damned nearly let Scotland go and then told some colonist or other that she had 'purred with delight at the result.' Now here was May fumbling around hopelessly with Brexit. Not a bad idea in itself, she thought, especially if it got rid of that ghastly Merkel creature carrying on as if she was a more senior Queen than she herself was - only with worse clothes and hair - but best not dealt with in this quarter-baked way by a clueless rabble who had the temerity to style themselves Her Majesty's Principal Secretaries of State for This and That.

But there was something else at the back of her mind. That day's post had as usual been delivered personally to her by Letters Poursuivante (Incoming) who had, with a kind of amused insouciance, drawn her attention to a letter from some upstart in America laying claim to her throne. 'Because I got great respect for all broads, specially that Le Pen dame and you' the letter had informed her 'I'm putting you on 30 days' notice that I'm gonna be the new King. Get used to it, lady! Suck it up!'  After the afternoon she'd had she was inclined to write back saying 'you're bloody welcome to it', but a brief conversation with the Really Good Listener of the Queen's Bedchamber soon restored her equilibrium.

She re-read the letter. The author claimed a direct line to a little known elder brother of William the Conquerer, who should, apparently, 'have inherited the Brit throne plus a bunch of other stuff' in 1066. The misspelling of 'Conqueror' severely irritated her. There was no evidence to support the claim to the throne, but there was a suggestion that Her Majesty and her immediate family would be 'taken care of' provided they co-operated, although this phrase had been untidily crossed out and replaced with 'looked after' perhaps, surmised the Queen, because the first version sounded too threatening. Late though it now was she summoned Word Processor in Waiting and dictated a note.

'Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of Her other Realms and Territories Queen, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith' (she was sorely tempted to add 'plus a bunch of other stuff' but resisted) 'has received your letter (undated) concerning the British throne. Her Majesty has commanded me to inform you, in the name of Her Majesty (see first sentence for full title) that your claim is rejected. You will note that Her Majesty's title refers to the position taken in this matter by God, whose opinion is deemed to override yours. Yours etc.' The Queen allowed herself a brief smile. That should do it.

She had a busy schedule over the next week or two, and soon forgot about the letter from America. There were cruise liners to be launched, crowds to be waved at, sundry boring dignitaries to be wined and dined, May to be fended off every week and constant requests from Kate to do a bit of babysitting, or 'just pick him up from nursery.' A plea from Tesco to open a new supermarket in West Bromwich was refused ('tell 'em no, not even if they were bloody Waitrose' she had instructed some hapless clerk), as was a request from the Glasgow Over 80s Cage Fighting Circle that she should reprise the success of her part in opening the Olympic Games by parachuting into the very cage where that year's championships were to be held. The promise of a ringside seat at the Ladies' Final, was, she felt, insufficiently tempting. A gushing letter from Blackpool saying how great it would be if she could see her way to doing the Christmas lights this year ('we would be happy to offer you and a friend free afternoon tea in the luxurious surroundings of the Blackpool Tower Ballroom') met with similarly sort shrift. The hapless clerk, though, was learning, and now deleted the expletives before sending the letters.

Meanwhile, the High Steward of the Royal Tweets - a position less antiquated than most at court - which meant that the office holder was considered an upstart and a parvenu by some of her more antiquated colleagues holding even more antiquated positions – was becoming increasingly, well, atwitter at some of the tweets she was monitoring, and eventually felt the need to consult Social Media Marechal in person. To do so face to face was highly irregular – her position required her to communicate for the most part in bursts of 140 characters only, hashtags included. However, the desired response from her superior was eventually elicited following a series of increasingly agitated tweets along the lines of Omigod!! Hav u seen latest from US? ROFLMAO! Must talk soonest! Luv u loads MWAH! God Save the Queen (it was the requirement to include that last bit that always played havoc with her 140 character limit.)

And so the Steward and the Marechal met, by Royal Appointment as it were, one momentous day in March of 2017. Notwithstanding the cutting-edge nature of their posts old royal traditions were maintained – oaths of allegiance were sworn, ceremonial bows were bowed and liveried footmen scurried here and there bearing silver trays laden with tea served in fine Royal Worcester china. Eventually the flummery died down and they began.

'Hav u seen l8est?? Is this guy 4 real???' began the High Steward, but the Marechal held up a hand.

'It's OK' she said with a smile 'we may transact Her Majesty's business in English while we are in private.' Momentarily she looked uncomfortable. 'God Save the Queen' she added, just to be on the safe side.

The High Steward relaxed.

'Well' she said 'take this one as an example. Just heard so-called Queen Eliz denying my claim to throne! Bad (or sick) guy!! Terrible!! Will be overturned!! The originator styles himself @realDonaldTrump – have we got anything on him?

The Marechal smiled the kind of smug smile only a Marechal can.

'I believe our transatlantic cousins, in their wisdom, have recently elected him to the office of President. I know, I know. Nations gaining their independence prematurely will sometimes make distressing choices. It's a lesson our Scottish brethren might do well to absorb.'

'Should we inform Her Majesty of his intention?'

'HM is aware of the claim and is, I understand, not taking the threat seriously. Indeed she is becoming somewhat skittish in old age and has decided to have a little fun with it.'

'Fun?'

'Yes. She is countering his claim to the British throne with one of her own. She is proposing to restore the USA to its rightful position as a British colony.'

The High Steward was astonished.

'WTF??' she gasped, involuntarily.

'She is not, of course, serious, but that is the position she will be taking with this Trump man. Unlike him though HM will be backing up her claim with reasoned argument. She will contend that the Declaration of Independence was not only illegal, but actually treasonable. Further, she will express the view there is no legal principle then or now to allow a group of citizens to establish their own laws just because they want to. She will require Trump to bend the knee, or she will have him arrested and thrown into jail. She will then announce her intention, in a rather pleasing phrase I feel, to take back control.'

'You mean she will threaten to restore British rule to the whole of the USA?'

The Marechal nodded.

'Plus a bunch of other stuff' she said.

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