Some Right Royal Statecraft

With the Ruritanian glitterhat of Empire not yet plonked upon his venerable bonce, and despite being unable to intervene in politics except when his pocketbook is affected, His Majesty the King may soon be obliged to dirty his plump pink palm shaking hands with a ghastly Euro-wog. Squeals of outrage are emanating even now from those quarters which specialise in such traditional British fare, because treacherous and backsliding persons have forced the poor old duffer to approve, by reason of the company he keeps, the betrayal of Brexit, the destruction of democracy, the disuniting of the Kingdom, the victory of Fenianism and, for all we know, the inadequacy of the domestic turnip crop for the entirety of the foreseeable future. His Majesty's Government claims that the timing of the visit's occurrence (simultaneously with the signing of Absolutely the Last Oven-ready Word on the Irish Question between Global Britain and its enemies in Strasbrussels) is pure coincidence; but this assertion has been denounced as a crass falsehood, including by no less an expert on falsehood and crassness than Baroness Foster of Aghadrumsee, Dame Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire. In response, a spokesbeing for Fishy Rishi plausibly played down any suggestion that the Government was being subtle.