There’s an easy answer to sort out the Royal Family’s problems.
As I’ve argued before, we must keep the monarchy, but the Royal Family should change every week and be chosen by a National Lottery.
With my system, instead of awkward battles and secret arguments, Nicholas Witchell would come on the 10 o’clock news to say: “Queen Eileen has issued a strongly worded statement, saying, ‘Prince Terry was out of order – it weren’t his place to remove security from our Kevin but you can’t tell him.
"He’s always been the bleedin’ same, the muppet.’”
And that would be the end of it.
Because all their difficulties come from the fact that the royals have no idea about normal life.
In her interview, Meghan Markle said she couldn’t follow the strict palace rules, but no one normal could understand them.
To the Palace, it makes sense that, “If one is a Duchess in the third drawing room, and the second son to the reigning monarch should enter, one’s valet must place a porcupine within one’s corset, and cry, ‘May I humbly prickle within, your highness and custodian of the holy ginger beer.’”
But the lottery method would make the royals accessible.
One week, an old family from East London would be royal, so the National Anthem would be a pub singalong, and go, “It’s a giggle being Queen, Though the palace needs a clean, And I’ve chucked out all the corgis ’cos I don’t know where they’ve been.”
The next week, a 22-year-old from South London would be king, so the anthem would be a rap that went: “God save the king, for I ain’t seen anyting’, like them crown jewels, dat is massive bling, big up myself, ’cos I is ruler of the Commonwealth.”
The monarch is head of the Church of England, so the church would be the religion of that week’s lottery winner.
Some weeks it would be a Christian, but the next week it might be a pagan who lives in a wigwam in Devon.
So that week, vicars across England would have to change their name to something like Spirit of the Wind, who would say: “Now let us chant our first hymn, number 236, Um Oo Oo Aaa, bring me peace and a box of chickpeas.”
Instead of shooting parties, each week at Sandringham there would be a Call of Duty computer game party.
Servants would prepare the grounds, saying: “The controls are ready Your Highness.”
Every time the Prince of Wales blew up a zombie, the gamekeeper would say: “Excellent shot, sir, shall I digitally bag your kill for you?”
Under my system, none of the Royal Family’s current problems would have happened.
Princess Angela, formerly Ange who worked in the Three Stags in Doncaster, would give an interview that went: “If he were best mates wit’ bloody paedo, he’s no relation o’ mine, I tell ’ee that for nowt.”
Then Nicholas Witchell would come on the 10 o’clock news to say: “This forthright response from a senior royal seems to have restored public support for the monarchy.”
The current royals would be fine, as they’d all get a deal with Netflix, and I’d get a knighthood for saving the monarchy.
