The sadness of King George’s favourite puppy

Britain’s soon to be ex-Prime Minister, Lord Blair of Kut al-Amara, is depressed. A while back he had asked his sovereign (who is right now not depressed, but hopping – some would say barking – mad) if there was anything in particular he could perform as the final act of his much-lauded tenure as head of government of his muppet state (with apologies to Kermit the Frog and Fozzie Bear).

Now if you think that, at this point, he was addressing a woman, think again. As every sentient 21st-century being is aware, Lord Blair’s acknowledged monarch is not Tinpot Lizzie, aka Good Queen Bess Redux, but good ol’ King Kong of the World – known to British subjects as George VIII, and the rest of the scumsucking world as King George the Second (except in Uganda, where they call him The First Kink of Snotland).

King George, desperately seeking suzerainty over those recalcitrant reprobates in Eye-ran, responded with a hey nonny nonny and a hotchacha, and summoned Donee-Tony to the Evil Office for a detailed briefing session.

In a nutshell, he ordered Bony-Tony to come up with a killer plan for inciting the excitable Eye-ranians into committing an act of such blatant terrorism that the whole world would support him in his humanitarian efforts at bringing democracy to that troubled land.

“My Lord,” intoned Intern Tony, “I have a cunning plan,” and he proceeded to recount to His Majesty an all but forgotten legend harking back to the dawn of time. According to the legend, a price was placed upon the head of a celebrated court jester by the name of Salamander Raskolnikov. This Raskolnikov had been accused by the Pharisaic breed of blasphemy for having once jested that Lord Cyrus Bonecrusher had been born out of wedlock. For this heinous crime the Pharisees had sworn to serve his head upon a platter to their liege lords. “He, my Lord, is the answer to our problem.”

The King was sceptical. He said, “But this fellow must be dead by now.”

“Oh no no no no no, Your Majesty, he is alive if not kicking. And if you but say the word I shall trundle his sorry arse out of the Skittish Museum for your amusement, and his bemusement, and confer upon him the honourable title of Knight Commander of the Bathwater, thus causing those evil Eye-rannies to go beserk.”

“Oh,” asked King George, “and which word would you have me say, Tommy?”

“Your Majesty, any three-letter word beginning with the letter Y will do. (And it’s Tony, my Lord, not Tommy.)”

“In that case not-Tommy... yip yip yip yip yip yip yip.”

And so Raskolnikov was duly dipped in barely-used bathwater and knighted. King George and little Tommy waited with bated breath for rabid Eye-ranny death squads, daggers drawn, to hit the shores of flighty Blighty, baying for Sir Salamander’s blood.

And waited.

But nothing happened. Except that a handful of boring old farts from that (terminally) damned land of the puritanical beyond the pale stood up, turned their backsides westward, bent over, and let off a barrage of misguided incendiary devices.

Which is why King Kong of the World is fuming at Camp David Ben Gurion; Lord Blair is out of favour for the moment; and Sir Salamander has a confused expression on his face.