by Ashly Graham
By a prankster or some loony goof;
Surely no doctor could offer proof
This woman wasn’t nuts.
Even if she weren’t no queens were required
Just then; none had recently retired;
None seemed in danger of being fired—
The Regina market was cool.
Doris did get one polite reply
Pointing out that, even if one were to die,
Of heirs there was no short supply:
Her prospects still were grim.
The royal incumbents weren’t amused
And searched for legal grounds to accuse
D. of treason, with copyright abuse
Thrown in for extra measure;
Emperors, kings, and princes complained
That their spouses’ honour had been stained,
And in Court circles High Dudgeon reigned
Over D.’s lese-majesty.
Having got the attention of society,
And won herself such notoriety,
Doris was sought out for a variety
Of interviews on TV
Where her winning smile and personality,
Her homespun seemingly genuine quality,
And unshaken confidence in her suitability
Delighted all who tuned in.
Gradually the choleric intemperance
Of her sharpest critics turned to benevolence
As many of them started making reference
To D. as a stylistic meme.
The pundits, complimentary and reverential
In their comments, ignored the lack of the credential-
Filled résumé that might be considered essential
For her to be taken seriously.
On air Doris said, “This ridiculous notion
Of Divine Right, that it is more than a lotion
To be applied against sunburn, or a prescription
From the chemist, is quite absurd!”
Encouraged by the response, she continued to experiment
With outrageous statements, greatly to the enjoyment
Of her audiences, and ill-concealed embarrassment
Of those who look down their noses.
She did imitations of the genteel and refined,
And the way that bluebloods behaved when they dined;
She laughed like a loon every time that she signed
Doris R on her bouncing cheques.
Nothing, however, in her wildest imagination
Could prepare Doris for the degree of elation
She felt when answering the door to...A DELEGATION
FROM THE HOUSE OF COMMONS!
Although Doris’s jaw dropped unregally,
She was able to recover herself quickly
And ask them in for a pot of tea,
If they didn’t mind PG Tips.
Once inside, the MPs swore her to secrecy
And, stressing that this was on the q.t.,
Told her they’d voted to deem her worthy
Of ANOINTMENT AS THEIR NEW RULER!
It was not, the MP’s assured her most vehemently,
That He Who Must Be Obeyed Currently
Hadn’t done his best to rule the land decently,
But sadly he was…well…mad.
At the end of the year he’d agreed to abdicate
And in his last Christmas Message state
That, “This dynasty, we’ve concluded, must terminate.
We’re a fruitcake, not a Battenberg.”
Said the King, “We…I’ve…had it with anni horribili
And want to spend more time with my family
Of legumes.” FIST-PUMP! His Britannic Majesty
Had agreed to chuck in the job!
So now a replacement had to be found
Who would undertake not to screw around
And have no problem in being bound
By some very specific conditions.
Since a recent survey had made it clear
That most of the People were sincere
In continuing to hold the Monarchy dear,
If it cleaned up its act and was cheaper,
The Treasury, the Right Hons. stated, would bear
The cost of purchase, upkeep and repair
Of a terraced property in Dorking where
They thought Doris would be happy.
The Exchequer, they said, planned to liquidate
All Crown Assets down to the last pewter plate,
And pay her a small annuity, adequate
For a modern queen to live on.
Well! Now that she was in the loop,
But shuddering at the thought of Campbell’s soup,
Doris knew she had minutes to convince the group
That it needed to sweeten its offer
By persuading it over Mr Kipling cake
That the cuts No. 11 was proposing to make
Would, to be blunt, a serious mistake
And the falsest of economies.
(Disclosure: Doris had a marker due
On a loan and her horse had failed to come through
At Kemptown racetrack, where she’d tried to rescue
Her fortunes with a last gamble.)
“Ladies and gents!” said Doris, “ere you depart,
May I recommend that you take to heart
The advice of a woman who stands apart
From others you may have on your list?
“I want to explain why you can’t afford
To let the wisdom pass ignored
Of one who maintains that a queen, to be adored,
Must be able to live rather well.
“The public, you know, takes great offence
At revelations of unnecessary expense
Incurred by politicos’ travel and indulgence,
When the taxpayer’s footing the bill.
“Now, while chauffeured engines idling
Outside are what I might recall in the morning
When Today and John Humphrys are calling,
It doesn’t have to be that way.
“From the Beeb, I hazard, there’s nothing to fear
If the licence-payers have reason to cheer
And toast you in wine and pints of beer
When they hear your plan for a ruleress.
“A woman possessed of my kind of smarts,
Though she don’t drink stout and can’t play darts,
Is a People’s Queen who shall reach the parts
A Dorking sovereign can’t.
“For am I not right that, in an Election year,
The last thing sort of thing you want to hear
Is those on the Opposition benches sneer
At my stories of parties and junkets.
“So let me propose a winner all round:
In Parliament you’ll confirm that you’ve found
The perfect person who’s agreed to be crowned
As the new She-who-must-be-obeyed.
“Mark my words, there’ll be much celebration
And you’ll be in for sincere congratulation,
Instead of the worst kind of aggravation
I’ll take pains to ensure that you get.
“In the PM’s office you’ll discuss your careers;
Once re-elected, he’s sure to be all ears
To your respectful suggestion that he make you Peers
Or promote you to the Cabinet.”
At this there was a roar of assent
As it soaked in just what the lady meant;
The MPs agreed with her one hundred per cent,
They hastened to assure her,
Doris was heaven-sent, a real find;
Only…they wondered if she’d be so kind
As to consider one thing, if she didn’t mind:
Perhaps a more queenly name?
“Leave it out!” said Doris; “we refuse to muster
The haughty graces that always fluster
The likes of w
e. Such superficial lustre
Is for them ain’t got no class.
“No, Queen Doris’ll just ’ave to pass.
Now let’s go outside and sit on the grass;
I’ll break out the biggest size of glass
And we’ll drink bumpers all round!”
Consensus ad idem. They moved on to sherry,
And vodka, and whisky, and the juniper berry;
And the session became so parlee-ment-ary
It turned into an all-night sitting.
’
Chapter Fourteen
There was no end to King James detestation of everything newfangled. One day he summoned his Lord Chamberlain and informed him of his decision that, henceforth, clothes made of synthetic fabrics were to be forbidden.
‘Forbidden, Your Highness? You mean...’
‘We mean that all clothes, you know, the ones that people wear, whether underwear—smalls, unmentionables, that sort of thing—innerwear or outerwear—jackets and coats and stuff, scarves and so forth, are to be made of natural fibre only. Nothing artificial. D’ye follow us, Lord Chamberlain?’
‘I think so, Your Majesty.’
‘Have a scribe draw up an edict, will you, Lord Chamberlain? Cause copies to be posted throughout the land on recycled paper.’
‘Very good, sire.’
The Lord Chamberlain backed away from the Presence, and the footmen on either side of the double doors of the audience chamber opened them for him to depart in order to carry out the sovereign’s instruction. But before the Lord Chamberlain exited, he turned, struck by a thought.
‘By natural fibre, my liege, I presume you mean cotton and wool. The combination of which, I happen to know, is Viyella.’
‘LC, we will use no more proprietary names. A mixture of cotton and wool is exactly that: a mixture of cotton and wool. The wives of shepherds in ancient times did not sit at home carding and spinning Viyella. And as regards cotton, LC: people are no longer to wear denim. There will be no more jeans. And as for fur, faugh! We have a zero-tolerance policy regarding the wearing of fur or furs. There will be absolutely no fur. Even furry animals will be under suspicion, guilty until proven innocent of being bodily detached from their coats. To summarize, LC: anyone caught wearing jeans will be pilloried; put in the stocks and pelted with genetically modified foods. If they’re wearing fur, their heads will be cut off. Got that, LC?’
‘Very good, Your Majesty. Just making a note here on my pad...cotton and wool, cool, denim equals rotten tomatoes, wear fur, lose head.’ And the Lord Chamberlain turned again to leave.
‘Lord Chamberlain!’
‘Sire?’
The King said pettishly, ‘You know, LC, you still seem a little fuzzy on the subject. Cotton and wool are not the only pure fibres, far from it. What we are saying here is that from now on people may only clothe themselves in fabrics that are composed of natural materials. Meaning, LC, ergo, that they are not to wear anything made from artificial, man-made stuff. You know, nasty things that melt like Nylon and Polyester. Dacron. Ugh.’
‘Ugh indeed, sir.’
The King paused. ‘Come here, LC.’
The Lord Chamberlain advanced. He sensed that an error had been made on his part and that he was about to pay for it.
‘LC, cotton and wool are not the only fabrics from which clothes are made. Tell us that ye know this and that we do not have to enlighten ye further.’
The Lord Chamberlain was inspired. ‘Oh no, sir! I mean yes, I do. There’s linen, too. My grandfather bespoke a summer jacket made of linen. And in winter he favoured corduroy trousers to keep his legs warm. There’s nothing like a good wide-wale corduroy, he said, for...’
The King gestured impatiently. ‘Linen, corduroy. There are others.’
‘More? Yes, I suppose there are. Very good, I’ll go and get on with...’
‘Footman on the left!’ barked James. Both footmen stood forward at attention.
‘Tut! Our left, you ninnies. Go and get our portable writing block and a folio sheet of recycled paper and a woodless HB pencil for the Lord Chamberlain. Make that several folio sheets, and two pencils, and mind ye that they are well-sharpened ones.’
The articles were brought, the writing platform was hung round the Lord Chamberlain’s neck, and he was furnished with paper and pencil.
‘Ready, LC?’
‘I am prepared, sire.’
‘Then write down these words, Lord Chamberlain.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘There’s cotton, and there’s wool. Got those?’
‘Actually, a previous notation was made to that effect, sir. Now may I...’
‘Can you write fast, LC?’
‘Fairly. But I have a secretary, in fact two secretaries, who...’
‘Here goes then. In addition to cotton and wool, there’s buckram and grogram and fustian...’
‘Of course there are, I had forgotten those. Silly me. Buckram and grogram and fustian: I’ve added those to the list. Now I...’
‘...and canvas and felt and hessian and stammel and drill and twill and nankeen and mull and nainsook and jaconet and dowlas and moleskin and sharkskin and dimity and duck and mohair and camlet and barathea and cashmere and alpaca and vicuna and angora and worsted and kersey and tweed and serge and shalloon and baize and lace and percale and rep and seersucker and chintz and cretonne and holland and foulard and grosgrain and damask and brocade and silk and samite and satin and sateen and gazar and tulle and ninon and taffeta and tiffany and tussah and tussore and gaberdine and sarsenet and shantung and velvet and velveteen and velours and muslin and moiré and organdie and organza and calico and madras and bullion and chenille and crinoline and toilinet and bombazine and drugget and gauze and crape and crêpe and crêpe de Chine and crêpeline and marocain and georgette and gingham and voile and cambric and batiste and lawn and poplin and chiffon and lisle.
‘Got all those, LC? We are sure there are more, but right now we...Lord Chamberlain?’
Chapter Fifteen
The next day the Lord Chamberlain, his right arm in a sling, was again summoned before King James.
‘Ah there you are, Lord Chamberlain.’
‘Good morning, Your Majesty.’
‘LC, we recall you once telling us, when we and you were playing Real Tennis at Hampton Court and you nearly beat us by mistake, that you are ambidextrous.’
‘Ambidextrous, sir?’
‘Meaning you can write with equal facility with both hands. Using one at a time, of course. We presume you are familiar with the term, LC, because it was you who mentioned it.’
‘It is true, O King,’ said the Lord Chamberlain dully. ‘I cannot deny it.’
‘Nor should you, LC, it is an enviable accomplishment. ‘Footman on the right!’
The footman on the King’s right was prepared for what was coming, and brought forward the writing platform and three folio-size sheets of recycled paper and three sharpened HB pencils. The King motioned for the footman to equip the Lord Chamberlain with them.
‘Now then, LC. Yesterday you were an inspiration to us.’
‘How the...I am most gratified to learn so, Your Majesty.’
‘There is another proclamation we want you to make to the people.’
‘Really. Why am I not surprised. What’s on the menu today, sir?’
‘No more motor cars, LC.’
The Lord Chamberlain thought of the Rolls-Royce Silver Phantom that came with his job. ‘I see, sir.’
‘What do you see, LC?’
‘That there are to be no more cars, sir.’
‘By which we mean not only no more engine-powered cars, LC, but no more motorized transportation of any kind.’
