The nation has woken this morning to the joyous announcement by Mr. Clarence House, the royal family’s official wedding announcer, that the only son of HRH Prince Charles is to marry his sweetheart Kate Middle-Class, an ordinary shopgirl from Nuneaton. As the news broke, enraptured crowds rushed into the ordinary working class streets of the nation, chanting with joyful celebrationness, “Down with the Coalition!” and “Bring us the head of Gordon Brown!” before the traditional assault by hordes of anonymised riot police in full body armour drove them back.
Middlebrow, a 29 year old typist from Biggleswade, and her ticket to a life of unimaginable privilege and wealth, spoke to our correspondent in a joyous news conference, with great joy, as much of the nation celebrated by skipping breakfast because they can’t afford such fripperies these days due to the raging hyperinflation. Miss Middlesex, a cleaner from Stoke On Trent, spoke joyously at how she was first attracted to the dashing young prince by his astonishing resemblance to George III, which is shared by his father, his uncles, his grandmother and indeed entire family, except, paradoxically, his own brother. Future king William, on the other hand, spoke in joyous terms of his joy that, as the future king of England, he could pull a cracker like saucy Kate, a 29 year old former strippergram from Cardiff, despite looking so much like George III.
The proleteriat are expected to continue their spontaneous celebrations and mood of rapture until the Royal Wedding next year at Westminster Abbey, at which Mr Elton John will play his hit song “Rocket Man” with vocalisations by Mr William Shatner and, in a return to traditional British pagan values, 25 of the town’s virgins will be sacrificed to Kerenos The Horned God; a change advised by the Archbishop Of Canterbury on ecumenical grounds. As a 21-bomb salute of muslim suicide bombers explodes outside, the groom’s father, Mr Prince Charles, with an old boiler at his side, will deliver a tedious speech on the the importance of dropping the word “the” from between “of” and “faith”. The newlyweds will then exit the Cathedral, with the bride’s 25 yard train of the finest silk carried by mortgage evictees desperate to earn a crust of bread.
Today, across Westminster, Coalition politicians are reported to be huddled in offices, praying that this crap will have a similar distracting effect to the Silver Jubilee nonsense that Prime Minister Callaghan hoped would persuade everybody that the country wasn’t entirely up shit creek back in the 70s.
After the wedding, the happy couple are expected to wait, and wait, and wait, and go slightly mad from the waiting, for King William to ascend the throne of England, an imaginary country that once existed prior to the Lisbon Treaty. Your daily Counting Cats In Zanzibar will of course cover all the subsequent Royal Affairs, and the eventual extremely messy Royal Divorce.