I was astounded this week, to receive an email from the Queen expressing her outrage at being in the same blog as Russell Grant. Her email in full, is printed below.
Mr Parkinson...as a significant patron of the arts throughout the commonwealth, I was horrified to read your recent article, humorously conjoining me with, the tap-dancing psychic, Russell Grant, the original annus horribilis. Indeed, restraining my husband from meting out an appropriate punishment on you, has sapped me of much of my normal resilience and stoicism. Rest assured, if times were different, or indeed, we lived in sunnier climbs, I would certainly consider a stiff punishment for an internet pirate like yourself.
I must also remind you that this is my Jubilee year, and I have granted all subjects a public holiday. If comparisons with portly star-gazers is all the thanks one gets, I shall remember to be less generous with citizens during one’s Platinum 2022.
On another note entirely, I have to admit a little incredulity at the very idea that the arts possess qualities beyond formal decoration or stock; that said, my husband and I do enjoy rude health. Does the ‘research’ you so often refer to, equate to the value of one’s stock? I mean to say, is it on a sliding scale? Does a da Vinci posses more healing salve than a Hockney say? And in the case of Hockney, I notice he’s something of a vociferous smoker, so does his painting help him live longer, or is there some complicated equation that somehow mitigates against his other more, shall we say, flamboyant affectations?
During many of our visits to the further, more colourful areas of the commonwealth, I have noted, my husband has shown great interest in participating in all manner of dancing and whatnot. He calls this, ‘doing the hunga-munga.’ I wonder, is this perhaps the root of his happiness? Has one ever measured the hunga-munga? Is this something a Royal Commission should be set up for? Should I talk to Sadler's Wells or the Opera House?
Finally, could there be a role for field sports in all of this? I often smile, when I think of the almost Colonel Kurtz-like appearance of Charles on his first-blooding. His little face like a beetroot coloured, dazzle-ship in dry dock!
I can see that I’ve strayed into unchartered territory here and must conclude by reiterating that I do not want to see any more comparisons to that dreadful little man, and must make it clear, that any chance of a knighthood evaporated the moment you posted that hateful photograph and awful essay (you thought I wouldn’t mention it, didn’t you?) I maybe an old queen, but I’m an observant old queen who takes her Royal Jelly.
What would the rioters say?
“Ended” The Queen