Ah, England. The land of tea and crumpets and Posh Spice. I’m enjoying watching President and Mrs. Obama spend time over there, particularly their meeting with Queen Elizabeth II. It seems like just yesterday I was living temporarily at Buckingham Palace after Julie Andrews threw me out of our love nest in Notting Hill.
Lucky for me, I met Her Majesty late one foggy London night. It was either during intermission at the Royal Opera House or during a game of strip poker in the back seat of Mick Jagger’s Bentley…I can’t remember which. The details are a bit fuzzy. Placido Domingo was there, but I also recall the Queen jabbing Paul McCartney with her scepter, insisting that socks did not count as a layer of clothing.
Anyway, the Queen and I hit it off, bonding over our mutual affection for coconut rum and Chevy Chase movies. And as soon as she found out I was sleeping at the bus station, using Amy Winehouse’s wig as a pillow, she insisted I move into the palace until I perfected my Tony Blair cabaret act.
I was hesitant about the arrangement, knowing how sensitive British taxpayers are about supporting the royal family. I could only imagine what they’d say about some American interloper who had faked his own death to get out of working for Naomi Campbell.
But the Queen insisted I stay with her and said that if I was so concerned about pulling my own weight then each morning I could work off my boarding expenses by helping Prince Charles tape back his ears.
At first things were a little awkward. Apparently starting off with, “Good afternoon, Your Majesty, I’d be honored if you would favor me with your version of Pat Benatar’s ‘Love is a Battlefield,’” is against protocol.
But, to her credit, Queen Elizabeth did her best to make me feel right at home. “Philip will take the futon in the Churchill Parlor. You can have his side of our bed.” I objected, of course, but the Queen was insistent. “Please,” she said as she opened up a new tin of cherry Skoal, “you ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
I was nervous, to be sure, but deep down I was dying to find out if the Queen snored and/or shared my habit of snuggling up with a bag of goldfish crackers and a bottle of orange soda. Plus, just imagine the pillow talk: “I think Camilla and Charles are totally wrong for each other, too,” I’d purr, as we moved from goldfish to mint milanos.
The Queen even brought me with her on weekend trips to her estate in Scotland, where I spend many lovely days shouting pirate sounds at Sean Connery.
But, as they say, nothing lasts forever. Eventually it was time for me to go back to the states. At least that’s what the people from Scotland Yard said when the found me with the crown jewels hidden in that Amy Winehouse wig.
And to add insult to injury I still don’t know what a crumpet is.
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