Mr. President, First Lady, Ladies and Gentlemen… um, yes. It is an absolute, well, a profound privilege, to be here with you all this evening. As Eccles said in the Goon Show – a comedic gem which sadly, unlike the output of Mr Benny Hill, has never achieved transatlantic success – “Everybody’s got to be somewhere” which explains my presence here, my younger son’s sojourn in California, and my brother’s exile to Norfolk.
However, I know that my host would rather I did not mention his previously reported connections with Mr Epstein, and has started a war and indeed depicted himself as the Son of God in an attempt to divert attention elsewhere – but, to quote yet another famous English comedian, Mr Monty Python – “he’s not the Messiah, he’s a very naughty boy.”
I come before you today as a representative of the United Kingdom, a country which enjoys what our diplomats have long called a “special relationship” with America. I have always found that phrase faintly alarming. In my experience, when someone describes a relationship as special, it generally means one party does most of the talking and the other does most of the paying. I shall leave it to historians to determine which of us is which.
Having been awarded the Fifa prize for World Peace, my host was keen to see whether he could be similarly recognised by the United Kingdom. After all, our previous Ambassador to your country is a Lord – oh, gosh, I’ve brought up Mr Epstein again, silly me.
I wondered whether a knighthood would be in order, like the one my mother bestowed on Jimmy Savile, and whoops, I’ve done it again, brought up paedophilia. Damn and blast.
I’m here also to help celebrate the 250th anniversary of the establishment of this wonderful country. A catalyst for your declaration of independence was the popularity of a work published in January 1776 by Thomas Paine, entitled “Common Sense”. Paine also wrote “The Age of Reason” and it seems a shame that the virtues mentioned in both titles have, it seems, been abandoned by your good selves.
Now, I am reliably informed that there have been some… robust commentaries from certain quarters of the American press recently regarding the efficacy and, indeed, the general buoyancy of the Royal Navy. As a former naval officer myself – and, in fact, as Commander-in-Chief of our Great British armed forces – I naturally listen to these operational critiques with keen interest.
However, when one hears reports of our carriers facing the odd mechanical hiccup, my mind immediately turns to Admiral Neddie Seagoon, who once found his own battleship completely stranded in the sands of the Sahara Desert. As his crew quite sensibly attempted to flee, Seagoon stood firm on the bridge and declared: “Don’t panic! I’m the captain of this shipwreck. Any panicking to be done, I’ll do it.” And truly, ladies and gentlemen, is that not the enduring spirit of British sea power?
Whatever the logistical hurdles, we remain entirely in charge of our own panicking. This is an approach I recommend to you, Mr President, internalising one’s issues and not taking to one’s social media in the early hours and giving the whole world sleepless nights. Nowadays, when I wake up to the words “What has that idiot done now?” I’m not instantly thinking of the actions of one of my relations, which is, I suppose, some relief.
While I’m here, I’ve been admiring the work being done on the White House, although I gather it is being carried out in fits and starts, thanks to meddlesome interference by the judiciary. I commend to you, Mr President, the methods we employed in 1812 to remodel your seat of government; although I believe that at present, you are forbidden to use either matches or sharp objects.
I would have liked to have taken the opportunity whilst I was “this side of the pond” to see my grandchildren, but sadly I’ve been told my trip is going to be cut short. Having arrived without a passport, the good officers of ICE are apparently on their way right now to deport me as an undesirable alien.
I was only let into the country because I was able to produce a ten pound note, point to my face and my portrait, and then be admitted because the immigration officer was a fan of Mr Bean, who apparently I resemble; although I suspect the fact that he has been working unpaid for the last two months also contributed to his lack of diligence.
So, sad though I am to cut this visit short, I also feel that leaving prematurely, whilst there is still jet fuel available to get me home, is preferable to being exiled here in perpetuity; just ask my youngest son how that’s working out for him. Cheerio – and remember, please, that “No Kings Day” does not refer to yours truly.
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