Memorandum

To: The People of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and Members of the Commonwealth

For the past seventy years and twenty nine days, I have ruled this country with an iron fist. Yes, when my fist lands on this table, the metal ores and diamonds raped from your lands clang together. I have had to bear the burden of this crown, which is priceless, yes, but so are the memes which have likened me to the Statue of Liberty.  

Indeed, Britain has lost her spark, but that was before me; with the end of slavery, the slow and steady decline of the British Empire followed. We were to remain propped up by the stilts of European Union for decades, but Brexit has decimated any of our remaining pride. 

My father, and his father before him, thought it important to hold on to this title, but today, my spine is kyphotic and I have COVID. I no longer wish to keep up appearances. There is simply no point in being Queen.

Why have I held on so long, you may ask? I have never found a suitable successor … until now. 

You may be invested in learning of how I came to my decision and I have outlined details herein.

Harry: With his rebellious ginger hair, I thought Harry may be savior to the throne. His stunts such as dressing up as Hitler and rolling out of bars, drunk, made him the ideal King. But, in the end, it was rather a delight to see him leave. You see, after years spent on safaris in Tanzania and Kenya, and enjoying idyllic vacations in Botswana wherein Africans waited upon him hand and foot, Harry departed from the programmed racism. He discovered his mental health … with the help of a girl who scribbled motivational quotes, aimed at sexually abused women, on bananas.

You can rest assured it wasn’t I who questioned  the would-be appearance of  Harry’s child – it was Phillip. It’s not that Phil was racist, he just called things as they were.  I, for one, knew the child would arrive with red dreadlocks and a mouth full of grillz. 

The final straw was Harry absconding to America. Canada would’ve been a less hurtful choice. 

William: Insufferably sane, level-headed and boring. His woodpecker teeth and permanent guffaw are not worthy tabloid fodder. In addition, he married a woman who sued the French papers for publishing photos of her wearing a matronly one-piece bathing suit. Not suitable for Queen.

Charles:  His eco-friendliness and every single “sustainable” venture he has supported will ensure the rapid decline of our family’s wealth and nobility.  I read somewhere that one’s ears and nose continue to grow as they age. Charles’ nose will circle the equator, and his ears will tower above his inflated head before he becomes king. I must say, I quite preferred the first wife, annoying little prat, but at least she risked getting herself blown up by landmines.

Andrew : It is my pleasure to formally announce that I have chosen Andrew to be King.  He quite likes children. And as you know, children are the future. The enormous debt he has incurred, due to Epstein-associated legal fees, will ensure the invasion of foreign lands and reignite the glory of the British empire. 

It has been a pleasure to serve you, comrades; by the the end of this writing, my last Corgi will have taken her final breath. I will have survived one hundred and seventy Prime Ministers, numerous wars, and a pretty sister. But what matters most is I have written to you from the loo, I shall not die with shit in my colon.