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Roger Rabbits with |
His Royal Highness
King Charles
Buckingham Palace
London SW1A 1AA
UNITED KINGDOM
3RD June 2024
Mr Jim Bunny
C/O The Weekend Sun
Tauranga
Dear Mr Bunny,
Golly gosh – the much aggrieved Mr Bunny. Thank you for your latest pathetic, moaning, cringing rant.
Last time I heard from you, you were complaining about not making the official guest list for my Coronation. You might be surprised to learn no one questioned your absence. But, thank you anyway, the show went swimmingly well.
Bunny? Is that really your family name? What were they thinking? But I suppose it was us chaps who sent rabbits to the colonies, so we only have ourselves to blame. And I have to live with a name like Charles Philip Arthur George Mountbatten-Windsor. And that’s a gob-full.
Anyhow, your latest beef with the Monarchy landed on my Resolute Desk this week. You know, one of the twin Resolute Desks made from the oak timbers of HMS Resolute. Spiffing eh?
So your standard white XXL Jockey Y-fronts are in a knot over being left off the 2024 King’s Birthday Honours list.
Well friend, and I use the term loosely, I am now King of the UK, its Dominions, and colonies and I have more to concern myself than your dented ego. King’s Honours are for people of distinction – achievers, contributors, people who inspire and lead. And certainly not for a malcontented, crusty old hack journo whose career can only be catalogued as ‘vanilla’ – colourless, bland, drab, unremarkable.
You claim to write a page two column. Well, humble and loyal subject, I flicked through the Financial Times, The Economist and The Guardian as I ate my lightly poached plums, muesli and hard-boiled egg this morning, just before I climbed from my 800 thread Egyptian cotton sheets, and I didn’t see a ‘Jim Bunny’ byline.
I also take those horrible, scandalous, vicious tabloids, The Daily Express, The Daily Mail and The Sun into my personal Throne Room – the wee boys room – away from Camilla’s gaze. I recall the “page three girls” and the story about an English woman having a Martian’s baby, but I didn’t see any columns attributed to you.
You claim to have served “the common good and common sense” with your unflinchingly advocacy for Tauranga Domain to be developed into a niche stadium. “A campaign worthy of a gong,” you suggested.
What a bugger Old Bean, because if you had proposed the Domain being turned into a polo field for a chukka or two, a sport of style and standing, there might have been an Order of Merit in it.
Imagine – the nickering and neighing of charging, sweating polo ponies, Range Rover boot parties with champagne and charcuterie, marinated vegetables and salads. Perhaps then, Mr Bunny, your campaign might have gained traction.
Anyhow, I have bigger things to worry, Mr Bunny.
I’m trying to lever my younger and disgraced brother, Andrew, and his toe-sucking ex-wife, out of my Royal Lodge – two plonkers rattling around in 30 rooms in £30 million worth of real estate, the upkeep of which is costing me £400,000 a year. I will turn off the electricity if I have to. Andrew will become cold and uncomfortable. And he will be forced to eat cake.
That, Mr Bunny, is a problem of right royal proportions, and not your crusade for celebrity.
We have also been doing some due diligence old chap. You claim to be an “old bosom buddy” of mine, having shaken my hand and yarned at a Royal Young People’s Luncheon in Dunedin about 50 years ago. I funnily, I don’t recall you or the moment. The luncheon, you say, was for the young destined for greatness. Whatever happened to you Mr Bunny?
King’s Birthday Honours are for fine, upstanding, unimpeachable folk. Which raises question about some scrapes with the law.
Was it you left holding the matches when a small fire broke out on a dry, gorse, hillside near your childhood home in 1960, and accelerated into a conflagration that threatened homes and inhabitants and required eight fire trucks and dozens of firemen to extinguish?
Was it you who painted the family’s black and white household cat called ‘Tim’ with a nice neutral beige acrylic and hid it in the wardrobe?
Was it you who literally got the ‘slap’ – a mean unexpected backhander from a no-nonsense cop after he stopped you for a driving infraction that may or may not have involved a hint of alcohol about 1969.
No Mr Bunny – you do not qualify for Honours this time. Nor next time I suspect. Thank you for your letter. No further correspondence will be entered into you.
Vivat Rex
Long Live the King.
Chas