‘It’s me! Greetings from your favourite star of the show!’
‘Oh dear,’ says Mrs Miggins, as Kenneth the Phantomime, for
yes, of course, it is HIM, flounces into the dining room, cape swirling and hat
set at the jauntiest of jaunty angles.
‘Bonsoir, mes enfants! Je suis arrive!’ Kenneth continues, channelling
his inner Cher and making gracious bows at everyone. And then – because just
occasionally he isn’t wholly wrapped up in his own ego - he notices the two
strangers in the room.
‘Well, hello!’ he says. ‘I didn’t realise I was going to
find myself in the midst of a regal look-a-likey party.’
‘You’re not,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Your Majesties, may I
present to you Kenneth the Phantomime, who likes to think he is the star of
every show. Kenneth, this is His Majesty King Charles and Her Majesty Queen
Camilla…’
Kenneth stares intently at Charles and Camilla. ‘They’re
very good,’ he says to Mrs Miggins. ‘I mean, I know an agency in London that
would take them onto their books, no probs at all. They’d almost certainly get
work straight away.’
‘Kenneth,’ says Mrs Miggins, with a sigh, ‘these are the
very real and very genuine Charles and Camilla, from our own Royal Family.’
Kenneth takes a closer look. ‘Shut UP!’ he says. Then, ‘You
are having a laugh!’
King Charles decides to intervene. ‘The good Lady Miggins is
quite correct,’ he says, offering his hand to Kenneth. ‘We are, indeed, the
genuine Royal theys, and we are very pleased to meet you, aren’t we, Camilla?’
‘Yes,’ says Camilla. ‘Please, Mr Phantomime, sit down. Do
tell us about yourself.’
‘Oooh, don’t let him do that,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘He’ll go
on and on and on and on, and we’ll never get ANYTHING done.’
‘Rude,’ says Kenneth. ‘I think if their most gracious
Majesties want to hear all about me, then I should oblige. I am, after all, the
star…’
‘What EXACTLY are you doing here?’ says Mrs Poo, who is in full-on
organising mode and hates to be interrupted when she is formulating a plan of
military precision.
‘Well,’ says Kenneth, pulling up a seat next to Camilla and
patting her on the hand, ‘I’ve just got back from an intensive training course
at the Budapest Academy for Drama, Acting, Speech and Singing…’
‘B.A.D.A.S.S?’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘Correct,’ says Kenneth. ‘Where I underwent the most
in-depth and, I might add, psychologically draining course in Therapeutic
Identification and Mannerisms of Ego…’
‘T.I.M.E?’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘Correct,’ says Kenneth, ‘in order for me to deepen my
understanding and practice of the dramatic art of realistic characterisation.’
‘You’re going to impersonate people?’ says Mrs Slocombe.
‘Wrong!’ says Kenneth. ‘I am going to mimic - in precise and
great detail – anyone living or dead, for the purpose of AI.’
‘Artificial intelligence?’ says Mrs Slocombe, aghast.
‘Artificial impersonation,’ says Kenneth, triumphantly.
‘It’s the new cutting edge of performance theatre.’
Mrs Miggins, who is growing increasingly impatient with all
this flim-flammery, interrupts. ‘I think you’ll find,’ she says, ‘that Mike
Yarwood was doing exactly that back in the 1970s.’
‘Pah to the 1970s!’ says Kenneth. ‘This is the 21st
century, baby. Things have moved on. Get with it, dude. Get on and happening,
dig it, right?’
Camilla leans towards Mrs Pumphrey who is sitting on her
other side. ‘What’s the chap saying?’ she whispers.
‘I have no idea,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘He turns up every Christmas on some pretext or another and talks a load of rubbish. Sometimes he
proves to be useful, but we never get rid of him until Boxing Day.’
‘Ah,’ says Camilla, ‘Charles and I have the same problem
with some of our acquaintances, too. Do you know what works really well?’
‘No,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, ‘Do tell…’
‘Kipper behind the radiator!’ says Camilla. ‘Works a treat,
although it does take a good scrub with the bicarb and white vinegar to get rid
of the after-smell.’
‘I say,’ says Charles, who has been studying the Phantomime
closely. ‘I don’t suppose your Kenneth chap could pretend to be me and record
the Royal Christmas Day message, could he? He seems a rather skilled actor.’
‘Are you MAD, Charles?’ says Camilla, who can spot a fraud a
mile off. ‘He looks and sounds nothing like you.’
‘Ah, but he’s been to that theatrical training place,’ says
Charles. ‘What was it? B.A.D.B.U.M?’
‘B.A.D.A.S.S, your Majesty,’ says Kenneth, ‘and I would be
most honoured to step into your most regal shoes and record the Christmas Day
message.’
Quite frankly, Kenneth can hardly believe his luck. What a
gig to score, and so soon after gaining his AI qualification!
‘I really don’t think…’ begins Mrs Miggins, but her
protestations are to no avail. King Charles is determined. He has holiday vibes
pulsing in his blue-blooded veins and nothing will stop him heading off for his
break from all the Christmas madness.
‘It’s settled, then!’ he says. ‘The BBC camera crew will
arrive at the Palace next week. Plenty of time for Mr Phantomime to practice
being me.’
Kenneth the Phantomime considers the proposition, but not
for very long. ‘I shall be the best Pretender to the Throne since Perkin
Warbeck!’ he says. ‘Don’t you worry, your Majesty. The British public will be
ignorant of the deceit.’
King Charles is thrilled. ‘Well, this is quite, quite
marvellous!’ he says. ‘Camilla, I do believe it is time to leave these good
hens in peace, and set off on our holidays!’ He roots around in his jacket
pocket and pulls out a set of keys which he hands to Mrs Miggins.
‘Here are the keys to Buckingham Palace,’ he says.
‘You have KEYS to Buckingham Palace??’ says Mrs Miggins.
‘Do you have keys to YOUR home?’ says King Charles.
‘Well, er…yes…’ says Mrs Miggins.
Charles raises an eyebrow as if to say, ‘well, there you go
then.’
‘I’ve taken the liberty of informing only the household
staff of our holiday plans,’ he continues. ‘It is otherwise not public
knowledge and I hope you will keep it so. In fact, I know I can trust you all.’
And he smiles at all the hens.
‘But won’t they think it’s a bit odd that Christmas is being
managed by a bunch of hens and an egomaniac?’ says Mrs Poo.
‘It doesn’t matter what they think,’ says Charles. ‘What
matters is that they will assist you in running the Royal Christmas so that no
one else finds out. And if the media do a get a whiff of something untoward –
and I’m not talking about kedgeree – then we shall call it a streamlining
experiment. The media are all very keen on streamlining the monarchy anyway.
We’re basically giving them what they want.’
And so, the plan is set in action. The hens and Kenneth the
Phantomime set about preparing their luggage to move into Buckingham Palace the
very next day.
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