Having hard-earned designs on kingship myself, I am deeply hurt by him constantly passing me up. He keeps calling me General, certainly not King and not even Prince, although Queenie, my mum, died a year ago. I’ve been waiting for the courtesy of a coronation to which, like King Charles, I am surely entitled.
Aren’t all sons of queens ready to be king? It’s the natural way of things and I was half-expecting an invite to the coronation myself. They tell me all the royals in Europe will be there, as well as Albo, our avowed republican Prime Minister, together with his very own consort, Jodie.
Albo says he needs to be there because it is an important occasion, but look, you’re not going to pass up a party like that just because you don’t like the idea of a hereditary monarchy. As The Boss says, coronations — like Halley’s Comet — don’t come around often.
My own prediction is that Albo will throw himself into it, hire a handsome morning suit from a Savile Row tailor but will shy away from the grey top hat — although I remain ready to be surprised. A lot of glitter can test a man’s principles, in the same way a mere chicken neck can drive a dog to dishonour.
And then Albo will invite King Charles to visit his antipodean outpost, along with Queen Camilla, preferably during Albo’s first term, so we can all revert to the proper republican directions after that.
The Boss thinks I’m a cynic and, also being a jealous dog, have lost any sense of decorum. It would be polite, he says, to invite the newly-minted King and Queen to pop out here while we are still their subjects, even if that won’t last long. Kind of a farewell tour.
But public attitudes and affections might still surprise, he says. The older he gets, the more The Boss falls into the category of “if it isn’t broken, don’t fix it”, and he reckons there are more pressing problems to solve than creating a republic.
“In unsettled times, most people are just like dogs, General,” he says with some finality. “They want stability, routine and predictability — as much as they can get it.”
And he points out that two-thirds of the British still think they are better off having the monarchy, with all its foibles. He can’t think of many countries where two-thirds of the populace agree on anything these days, so that stands for something.
Meanwhile the dog world is looking on with interest to see how the King will make his own smells around the palace. The corgis have gone, that’s for sure. He never liked them anyway, on account of their habit of biting people they didn’t like.
Word has it the King has studiously avoided the King Charles spaniel, as well as the Cavalier King Charles spaniel. Both are cute enough, with the Cavalier’s longer ears adding a more regal touch, but that isn’t enough: the new King doesn’t want to be confused with a dog.
Word is that Jack Russells have won the day and will take over Buckingham Palace in a yapping frenzy that will drown out any pesky republican protesters long enough for King Charles to grow deaf. Long live the King. Woof!
