By King Charles II, Head of the Commonwealth and Defender of the Faith
THERE feels something a tad amiss about my state visit to the US. Almost as if the prime minister is a back-alley ‘pimp’, and I am to take the role of his ‘bitch’.
The timing seems poor, given Mr Trump’s recent scathing comments about Britain and this trip being scheduled to flatter him. A demeaning prospect. A shame Andrew is exiled to Norfolk, as the two have certain former friends and criminal perversions in common.
Unfortunately the whole thing puts me in mind of grubby business deals where high-class courtesans are included as standard. Metaphorically, I hope, though who knows what this colonial president is capable of.
It is clear Camilla and I will be expected to abase ourselves. The tour of the White House, currently adorned with cheap plastic fittings sprayed gold, will be excruciating. ‘How lovely,’ one will demean oneself by lying. ‘We have real ones of those at the Palace.’
And speaking of exchanging sexual intercourse for money, we must endure again the painful charade that is the Trump marriage. When the distant couple stayed at Windsor Castle last year, I quickly discovered their relationship is a conversational minefield.
Even asking ‘How did you meet?’ is a faux pas when the answer is ‘Melania was procured for me by my closest friend, a paedophile sex trafficker whose murder it is not beyond the realm of possibility I had a hand in.’
This farce is beneath me – it would be beneath Edward – but my country requires it. So as I play a round of golf with the man while wearing one of his wretched baseball caps, I shall remember Sir Keir.
And when I return? He will be summoned to the Palace for one of our audiences. The garish, bell-hatted red-and-yellow suit of the King’s Fool will be laid out before him. And by God before he departs his office I will see that man caper and dance.
