I heard the sobs, it came from under a bridge of a stream, and
found a rejected prince with torn uniform crying, the country
he had given duty to, opening supermarkets, had gone republic
and overnight he had to leave the castle, his toys, and his polo
horses and charmed life. I commiserated with him, asked what
had happened to his horses. “They were made into salami and
sold cheaply to the poor people of Napoli.”
This made me angry and almost a monarchist, it is not right to
take revenge for years of inequality on horses. I took the prince
home, gave him a shower, he wanted me to scrub his back but
I said as he was a commoner now he had to do that himself.
It took a bit of time to teach him how to be working class saying
“fu*k” and “bloody” ever so often...Being the new elite, there
always has to be one, I got him a job as a bus driver...and he is
still driving the bus between Liverpool and Garston, calls it a royal
duty and who am I to argue? I live in his castle.
