NNNN’s Royal Correspondent Lurpac De Moine Previews the King’s Speech

Our late Queen always found the Christmas speech business a little tiresome, or at least that’s what her Lady-in-Waiting’s second cousin’s hairdresser’s neighbour’s plumber told me. Being a royal correspondent, i’m lucky enough to be ‘in the circle’ so to speak, not to brag. 

Her Majesty was never a performer, never one to pretend to be something she was not. In fact, she detested the Channel 4 show ‘Naked Attraction’ for this very reason, she didn’t like the idea of getting to know people in installments, she wanted to greet people eye to eye, to really get the measure of the man.

So filming her yearly message was always over rather quickly, she opted for as few takes as possible. In 44 of her speeches she did it all in one take! Not even Brando could’ve done that, although there were plans for him to replace Her Majesty in 1992 when she was feeling unwell, though they were scrapped and she did the speech anyway. Her ‘Annus Horribilis’ line was inspired by Brando’s ‘the horror’ speech in Apocalypse Now! Bet you didn’t know that little tidbit!

But Her Majesty is with us no more. For the first time in 70 years, we have a new monarch, King Charles III. In another life, perhaps Charles would’ve become an actor. He certainly dabbled in it at university, and is an ardent Shakespeare enthusiast. So speaking to the nation for the first time should, one suspects, be an occasion the new King relishes. 

I’ve already been hearing reports that Charles tried to enlist the help of playwright Jez Butterworth (of ‘Jerusalem’ fame) to help give the speech some ‘oomph’. When Butterworth declined, he turned to Phoebe Waller-Bridge (of ‘Fleabag’ fame), but she too declined as she was too busy polishing up the script for the new Hugh Hefner biopic. 

I did hear a rumour that he wanted to perform an interpretive dance to accompany the speech, and tried to enlist the help of theatre company Frantic Assembly. They too declined, so he attempted to choreograph the dance himself, leaving him with a broken collar bone. This is all hearsay, my readers, but, from what I personally know about His Majesty, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it were true. 

Another rumour was swirling around the royal forums recently claiming that Camilla will be beside him for the speech. Whether this is for emotional support, we don't know. It's possible Her Royal Highness will act as a metaphorical 'gun to the head' for Charles. Perhaps he performs better under pressure. One close associate described Camilla's company as feeling "strained, like having a .44 Magnum aimed at your temple", another went even further by claiming it feels like a bullet has actually been fired at your head, leaving you to "scramble around looking for pieces of your frontal lobe strewn all over the floor".

I did once hear an anecdote about a young horse girl being introduced to the then Duchess of Cornwall at an equestrian event. She'd won first prize for her age group, and was seen as a future Olympian, but after meeting the Duchess she slowly spiraled into a deep chasm of depression and started to loathe anything equine-related. It seems the Duchess had somehow, within a 5-minute meeting, sucked the joy out of horses and that had left a considerable vacuum in the girl's life. It did get better for her though, thank goodness! The Duchess, that is, not the girl, the girl died. She was found lying unconscious in her room with pictures of Camilla's head with her eyes cut out transposed onto a horse's body. No one's ever figured out what that all meant, but I for one wouldn't touch it with a barge pole, leave it to the armchair psychologists. But the Duchess went on to become Queen Consort and, in my very humble opinion, is doing a most excellent job!

I did have a quick word with the News, News, News, News editor who gave me permission to publish this alleged draft version of Charles' Christmas Day address that was leaked to me by an anonymous source known only to me as "Huw". It reads:

"This year has been a year like no other. 'Change' is perhaps a fitting word to describe 2022. Change has engulfed our way of life like a nanny engulfs one and smacks one on the bottom for saying a naughty word like 'damn' or 'nitwit'. Change has engulfed our lives like Dorothy Tutin engulfed the stage as Rosalind in As You Like It at the Royal Shakespeare Company in 1967. Change has engulfed our lives like a particularly delicious white Stilton gold engulfs your taste buds at an afternoon cheese-tasting on a village green in the Cotswolds. 

One of the many things my Mother taught me was to embrace change. She taught me that one's principles should remain unwavering, even if everything around you is changing at a pace which seems terrifying. She taught me to value humility, kindness, courage and conviction. She taught me to listen to others and to value each and every person one encounters, even if that person is ugly, like, objectively ugly, like, so ugly that even my late wife Diana would say "fuck this, i'm out! Would someone please cut the brakes on my car? I just can't. I just can't!"

I wholeheartedly believe my late Mother's lessons will remain important for many years to come. She devoted her entire life to serving her country with quiet dignity and hard-work. She alone determined her own fate, and never benefited from a friendly right-wing tabloid culture which carefully sculpted our family's favourable image over many decades. 

My mother believed in cooperation, communication and honesty. She believed in decency in politics, and that is why, in 70 years of British life under Queen Elizabeth, there was no political disagreement whatsoe'er. She believed in cooperation between faiths, and that is why, in the 70 years she inhabited the throne, all religions in our United Kingdom were able to live in harmony together, Protestants, Catholics, Quakers and all the other ones with funny Elephant Gods." 

As your new monarch, I intend to continue my mother's legacy as best I can. I will continue to swallow up public money, I will continue to support the Saudi Arabian regime, I will continue to enable our tabloid culture to pick apart my daughter-in-law like vultures, I will continue to deliver bland, uninspiring messages on Christmas Day each year, and I will continue to tell fairy-tales to myself about how much you all love me and my wife. 

I wish you all a very happy Christmas. 

Now, this is only rumoured to be his speech, I have no idea how much of the leak is true, and perhaps once this article is published and the internet explodes, His Majesty will alter his speech. But you heard it on NNNN first. What an advertisement this is for the great journalistic work that NNNN carries out day to day. Quite frankly I feel honoured to write for this paper. Join me in 2023 to keep up to date with all the Royal shithousery and hijinks that goes on behind palace walls! 

Dear Eileen: My Husband is Underwhelming in Bed, Should I Attempt to Galvanise his Testicles by Hooking Them up to a Car Battery?

My name is (Fmr) Sister Eileen Kirkup, I am 76 years old and I am a lapsed nun. My hobbies include baking, knitting and sprucing.

This weeks question comes from Tabitha in Muswell Hill, she asks, "Dear Eileen, my husband is underwhelming in bed, should I attempt to galvanise his testicles by hooking them up to a car battery?"

My Child,

Oh, good heavens! No sex, please! I'm a nun, and i'm British! 

I'm just joking with you, my child, I welcome all kinds of questions from my readers, no matter the subject matter! I may be a former nun, but i'm no prude, and no stranger to the crude, and neither is News, News, News, News. Other agony aunts tend to be more reserved, but I like to think NNNN hired me to subvert those expectations in a way. I view myself as a harpsichord among pianos, so to speak, I appear at first to look like a normal agony aunt, but when one attempts to get a tune out of me, one is shocked to hear such an offbeat sound! Besides, I'm actually a very big fan of Banksy, I have some t-shirts with his art, i'm a bit of a rebel, really!

Now, to answer your question/query, I first must tell you of how I became aware of 'such matters' when I was younger. A lot of us first hear about it from friends, or in sexual education class, but my experience was quite different. As you would've probably guessed, my parents were people of faith, deeply respected in their community and in their church. My father, Claus, was instrumental in raising money for the church when an oak tree smashed through the William Morris stained-glass windows in the great storm of 1963. Not only did he stage several wondrous one-man productions of medieval miracle plays, he also memorised the entire Old Testament and walked from Land's End to John O' Groats reciting it, egged on by a loyal crowd of supporters in every village, town, borough and city he passed through. My old man caught pneumonia, sprained his ankle, got bitten by a grass snake and was harassed by a group of rambling Jehovah's witnesses who were also taking the same route. But none of this fazed him, he completed the journey, raised more than enough money to restore the windows, and was even rewarded with a place on the stained-glass window near Saint Paul. 

My mother had the same community-driven spirit, she was also quite the inventor! She invented the organ pipe cleaner which is still used in parishes around the country to this day! The times were changing in the mid-1950s and child welfare laws prohibited small children from climbing into the pipes as this was seen as a risk to their respiratory health, and many people didn't believe their existence was physically possible in the first place, so my dear mother managed to convert an old curtain rail into a large pipe cleaner by wrapping it in llama fur. Sourcing the llamas was not as big a problem as you may have thought. Every year, their village celebrated Whitsun by tying six llamas to a maypole and watching them shuffle round. The first llama to stop and sit down would be the ‘chosen one’, they’d untie it, give it a throne and a sceptre, and if it grunted at an anyone, the unfortunate villager would be slaughtered and fed to the llama. They don’t put the ceremony on anymore, my child, I think it was Thatcher who put an end to it, the killjoy that she was.

Well, one wintry afternoon we were snowed in to our little cottage on the edge of the village. Completely barricaded by snow! I remember my father stooping beside the fireplace, praying for the snow to melt, whilst my mother was busy strapping an old iron to a piece of rope and lowering it onto the snow, hoping it would act as a melting device. Unfortunately it had little to no effect and this greatly dismayed my mother, as she always seemed to prevail against the odds, no matter how hard things got. Clearly mighty mother nature was a step too far even for her. I remember her cussing and swearing about the house, which quite aggravated my father, who was busy trying to figure out what sins he could’ve committed for God to create such misery. He went through a long list of misdemeanors like having a second serving of pudding last Wednesday, accidentally standing on Mrs Prufrock’s lawn after leaving Church, sending his daughter to Catholic school etc.

They then proceeded to have an almighty screaming match for the next 27 minutes and 35 seconds. I evacuated to my special hiding place in the room at the top of the house, behind father's bookshelf filled with dusty, leather-bound bibles. I never did peruse through them, though I did once attempt to open one up but was cruelly bitten by a bug sitting on the frontispiece on Jesus' face. I think it's safe to say, my child, that you won't encounter a speck of dust in my house now. 

When I pressed my ear to the floor to listen for more commotion downstairs I heard only silence, though a deafening one. Making the trek downstairs always felt like walking through a forest near Chernobyl after the reactor exploded, thick, British, repressed, middle-class marital-anger choking you up, rotting your insides, although I think I turned out OK, my child!

I couldn't find Mother or Father anywhere in the house. Usually mother would take a post-screaming match walk down to see the sheep at the bottom of the village, and father would just sleep. I realised I hadn't checked their room, so when I did, I opened the door slowly, peeked my head around, and.. well, my child, they were engaging in what my young mind could only fathom as 'procreation-adjacent Human Play-Doh'. 

I never mentioned it to either of them, one wouldn't. Looking back I do wonder why these conjugal endings to their screaming matches didn't stop the screaming matches happening in the first place, in fact, if anything they became more violent, sharp, biting and vicious. Perhaps the ferocity of their rows directly correlated with their increased mutual enjoyment of love-making, but I really don't know, and, I can't stress this enough, my child, I don't want to think about any of it. So, if you don't mind, I won't offer my opinion with regards to your Husband and whether you should harness an electrical current to stimulate his genitalia. 

I wish you a very merry Christmas!

Yours, 

Eileen