by Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second
I AM the monarch of this country. I am 95 years old. My son, the future King, is 72. So let me say this a final time: f**k off out of here with your Royal Yacht.
Every time there’s a Tory government it’s the same. ‘You know what she’d really like? A new yacht.’ ‘She hasn’t been the same since the scrapping of Britannia.’ Horseshit.
I’m pushing a century. I’m dealing with an increasingly fractured family. And I’m expected to be fully behind lashing £300 million on a yacht that won’t be finished until I’m 99 and I wouldn’t trust myself to stand upright on?
It’s so pathetically transparent. ‘She’d love a luxury yacht that she could meet world leaders on!’ No, you would. You’re jealous of being lobbied by oligarchs on floating palaces and want one of your own.
Why not a few more impractical ideas for nonagenarian widows? Why not a Royal McLaren 720S supercar? Why not a Royal Skatepark with a 21ft deep half-pipe? Where’s my Royal jetpack?
Have one if you want. If you really believe that other countries are so gullible they’ll sign unfavourable trade deals because they’re floating and the nearest bathroom gold taps. They won’t. I’ve met them. They’re smarter than you.
But don’t make out it’s for me. I could not give a f**k for your tiny-dick yearnings for a yacht. Leave me out of it.