Queen of King Street

His sister, the Queen, was standing next to him. “Agh! Hello, Betty, dear,” Bertie groaned. “Oh, I had such a nightmare. Is it time for breakfast? Can I have a dippy egg?” He smiled.

The Queen looked at him for a long time before she lifted her queenly handbag into the air. There was a loud thud of leather against head and everything went black again.

“Oh my, what a terrible dream within a dream,” Bertie said as he woke up for the second time. “Can I have a dippy egg … wait, haven’t we done this already, sis?”

“Get up!” the Queen barked.

Bertie jumped to his feet, rubbed his eyes and looked around. He wasn’t in his bedroom after all. He was in the Empire Club surrounded by his pals, and that meant … “Oh no, it wasn’t a dream?” he asked.

The Queen shook her head.

“Doesn’t that mean …?” he said, looking at the table of cards and money.

“YES!” the Queen said. “I knew something awful had happened when they rang me; they only ever ring me when it’s bad news, Bertie.” The Queen pushed a piece of paper at him. “It’s a strange thing, the law. Did you know that if you write an IOU note and sign it, it counts as a contract, AND THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT?!”

“You mean we’ve lost everything?” Bertie said, beginning to whimper.

“NO, BERTIE, IT MEANS YOU’VE LOST EVERYTHING!” the Queen snapped, and swung her bag at Bertie again. This time Bertie ducked.

“But you’re the queen, can’t you just throw Ginger in the Tower? No offence, Ginger …” Bertie said, looking over at his old mate, who was busy trying on an upside-down lampshade as a crown. “Or, you know, chop his head off a bit?”

“NO! I am the head of state, not a children’s book character. You can’t go around murdering people who annoy you. If I could, I’d have turned you into sausages years ago, Bertie. We are finished! There is only one thing to try to do, one person who can save us …” The Queen sighed.

“BATMAN?” Bertie asked.

“The Prime Minister, Bertie. PREPARE MY CARRIAGE! WE’RE OFF TO DOWNING STREET!”

“Hello, Your Majesty. What can I do for you? I am your humble servant,” the Prime Minister said, bowing. “This makes a change; normally I come to your place.” The Prime Minister grinned.

“Hello, Prime Minister. As you know, we’ve always been good friends …” the Queen started.

Bertie stood next to her, head down, bow tie undone, cheeks red with shame. Behind her stood drivers and footmen, ladies-in-waiting, trumpeters and other servants. The Queen never travelled anywhere on her own, whether she was nipping to the loo or dragging her useless brother from the Empire Club to Downing Street, home of Bob Bobswell, the Prime Minister.

“Good friends, are we?” the Prime Minister said, looking a bit surprised. “The first time we met, you called me an oik.”

“I meant it in a good way – who doesn’t love an oik?!” The Queen laughed nervously. “Listen, Prime Minister, may I call you Bob? I’ll cut to the chase. We need your help. Bertie here,” the Queen said, pointing at her brother, who looked up to do a little wave, “well, he’s rather put us on a sticky wicket by flushing all the Montgomery marmalade down the pan in a moment of monkey play.”

“Translator!” the Prime Minister yelled.

“He lost all the wonga on a game of cards,” the Prime Minister’s assistant whispered into his ear.

“Oh,” the Prime Minister replied.

“Now, I’ve had a word with Ginger, the person who won the game of cards …”

“Hello!” Ginger waved from the back of the crowd.

“Yes, anyway …” the Queen carried on. “I think we can pay off Ginger with a stack of cash so we can remain royal. All we need is 20 or 30 million pounds, and he’ll be fine and it’ll be the end of it. Isn’t that right, Ginger?”

“30 million?!” the Prime Minister said. “Where are you going to get that?”

“You’re going to give it to me!” The Queen smiled.

“No, I’m not,” the Prime Minister said, shaking his head.

“But I’m the queen, the public love me and my family … you can’t get rid of us. You can’t put Ginger in charge!” the Queen gasped.

“The public don’t love you. Have you seen the newspapers?” the Prime Minister said. He picked up a few papers to show her. “This is the latest in a long line of royal disasters.”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “There was that time you burned your castle down, Your Majesty, because it was raining and someone thought it would be a laugh to have a fireworks party indoors. We paid for that to be rebuilt. Plus there was the royal yacht. Remember when you all went skinny dipping and forgot to drop the anchor and the yacht floated away? That was your son Harry’s fault, wasn’t it? We still haven’t found that thing, so you made us build you a new one, to your design … the one that sank when it was launched. I mean, who puts windows on the bottom of a yacht!”

“Sorry,” Bertie said. “I wanted to watch the fishies swim by.”

“Everything you lot do is a disaster and, no, I’m afraid, Your Majesty, the public don’t like you, truth be told. We all think you’re a bunch of spoilt, out-of-touch oiks!” the Prime Minister yelled. “Ginger!”

“Yes, sir,” Ginger replied.

“Do you want the job? Being king of England?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Erm, OK,” Ginger said.

“Well, it’s yours. You won it fair and square. I declare you king,” the Prime Minister said, and waved his hand around. He pointed at all the Queen’s servants. “Ginger, I think all these people in wigs and fancy frocks belong to you now. Your Former Majesty, I’m afraid you lot are on your own.”