My first edict as sovereign concerns handbags. You know, the useful object in which you keep your purse, glasses and phone? The one that has become an insane chronicler of how much money you possess? Fiddlesticks, quoth I! From this day forth, any handbag that costs more than a few hundred quid shall be issued with a silliness forfeit, which decrees that £100 of its profit shall go straight to Kids Company, the charity run by Camila Batmanghelidjh.
My second decree is to remove all junction traffic lights, save those for pedestrians, from our major cities. They are programmed to stay on red too long, stopping the flow on all four sides and making drivers apoplectic with rage. Traffic-calming areas work because they assume courtesy, not bad manners. Furthermore, every vehicle shall be issued with a signal on top saying “Sorry, my fault, I’m a plonker” or “Back up – you are two chevrons too close”.
Buses driving in any lane but the apportioned bus lane will be fined, along with cyclists who jump lights. Fines taken will be given to the hospice movement.
From this day forth, there shall exist a cunning circuit around theatres for the purpose of blocking mobile phone signals. This will prevent audience members texting that they are sitting in a theatre watching a play. The custom of having to twice kiss total strangers as a greeting shall be banned, as will using the word “cool” instead of yes, pronouncing the H in front of the letter “aitch”, and Australian inflections? Except when they come from actual Australians. People who painfully nudge one’s arm for emphasis as they speak should be offered a forfeit, or handcuffs. The resulting fines from these heinous offences shall be sent directly to Myeloma UK.
Any television programmes that rely on audience voting, cruel panels and freakish contestants shall be put on one channel, which shall be known as Pinhead TV.
Bankers will be made to donate their bonuses to the NHS, specifically for nurses’ pay. The NHS will divert the money spent on strange and incomprehensible sculptures straight into the same fund.
Furthermore, all scripts intended for Helen Mirren, Julie Walters, Penelope Wilton and other gifted thespians shall mysteriously be lost in the post and delivered to my door – by tomorrow, when I shall no longer be Queen Mo.
