Her Majesty's Pleasures(CPlatt) The press photographers and television cameras gathered alongside the cheering public as Queen Elizabeth II made her way along the street. People waved flags and called out as she passed. The Queen stopped to make small talk with some of those that the press referred to as well-wishers. She took the bunches of flowers she was given. She smiled. She gave the trademark Royal wave.
The television cameras filmed what had become known as her ‘walkabout’ while the commentators spoke of how well she looked for a woman in her nineties. These experts explained that after the walkabout the Queen would spend the afternoon at Buckingham Palace with her family.
She neared the inviting gates of the Palace. Almost there. She spoke to a few more of her well wishers. She hated it when they called them her fans. They were not fans. She was the Queen not Madonna. Eventually, with one final wave to the crowds, she retreated to the privacy and security of the palace. Her son and her grandchildren, Princes Charles, William and Harry, followed behind her.
Once inside the palace with the gates and doors firmly shut the Queen sighed. Thank goodness that was over. She reached into her handbag. She pulled out a small bottle of whiskey. She took a hit of liquor.
‘A bit early isn’t it, Granny?’ asked Prince Harry.
‘Time is an illusion. I mean, what precisely is time?’
‘Twelve thirty.’ said Harry.
The Queen waved two fingers at her grandson. He laughed and rolled his eyes. She turned to one of her staff.
‘Got a cigarette?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
He produced a packet of cigarettes. He offered her the pack. She took one and thanked him. He bowed and backed away. She took a plastic disposable orange lighter from her bag. She lit the cigarette and took a long drag. She sighed again as she exhaled. That was better.
She kicked off her shoes as she crossed the grand room. She headed for her chambers. Twenty minutes later she returned dressed in t-shirt, jeans and trainers. She grabbed a remote control and pressed a few buttons. Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones played over the speakers.
Prince Charles and his sons came over to where she stood swaying in time with the music. Charles kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Would you mind awfully if we made a move? We’ve all got a lot on this afternoon.’
‘Not al all. You make yourselves scarce. I want to watch a couple of episodes of Sons of Anarchy anyway.’
Her family bid the Queen farewell and left. One of her staff approached as she flopped down into a high backed armchair.
‘What would ma’am like for lunch? The kitchen could do some smoked salmon. Or perhaps a selection of sandwiches?’
‘We are not entertaining any guests are we?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Then, do you know what I’d really like?’
‘A meal from the Mac Donald restaurant?’
‘It’s McDonalds and yes, that would be lovely.’
A short while later she went through to the dining room. A place was set at the head of the long wooden dining table. She stared at the burger and fries on the fine china plate.
‘How many times?’ she called. ‘You’re supposed to eat it from the packaging.’
She sat down and took a sip of the milkshake which had been decanted into a crystal tumbler. She munched on the Big Mac. Just the ticket. She was far too long in the tooth for all that pretentious food. She went along with the pomp and ceremony that went with her position. She had been Queen for so long that it had become a job that she did. The rest of her family seemed to revel in their status as Royalty but to her it was merely an occupation. Like most of the British public she was happiest once her work was done.
Once she had finished her Big Mac meal she retreated to the comfort of the lounge. She switched on the television set. She flicked through the channels. Perfect.
On screen Lieutenant Columbo grilled the murder suspect. The Queen made herself comfy. You couldn’t beat a bit of Columbo in the afternoon.
Later that afternoon, having spent the past few hours watching Netflix, she rubbed her hands together. Time for a pint.
She shrugged into her large parka coat. She left the palace through a side door, rolling her eyes as two security guards in dark suits followed behind.
Ten minutes later the Queen entered the busy pub. She pushed through the punters to the bar. She really needed a drink. She tried to forget about the two security workers hovering on the other side of the room.
‘Yes, love?’
‘Pint of lager, please.’
The barman nodded and pulled the pint. As he handed her the drink he spoke.
‘You look just like the Queen, you know?’
‘Do I? It is me. I am the Queen. Is this on the house then?’
‘Nice try.’
The Queen pulled a crumpled twenty pound note from the back pocket of her jeans.
‘But it is me, mate, honest.’
‘Oh yeah! And I’m Prince Charles.’
‘What do you think of the Royal family?’ she asked.
‘I love ‘em. They really make me proud to be English.’
‘Rubbish.’ said the man at the bar next to the Queen. ‘I can’t stick them. Bunch of freeloaders. Never done a days work in their lives. And all the hangers on too. Second Earl of wherever. Makes me sick.’
‘You should try being related to them.’ The Queen said.
She took a swig of her pint.
Three pints later and the Queen had completely relaxed. She munched on a packet of pork scratchings as she approached two men playing darts. They were in their early twenties and wore their shirts out over their designer jeans and expensive shoes. They played darts and drank bottled beer.
‘Any chance of a game, lads?’ the Queen asked.
The two me exchanged amused glances. She knew what they were thinking. What a story to tell their mates. Playing darts with this old biddy.
‘Yeah, sure.’ Said one of them.
He handed her the set of darts. She took aim as he spoke again.
‘Nearest the bulls eye to go first?’
The Queen threw the dart. It thudded into the dead centre of the bull. The two men stared in surprise. As they began their game Live and Let Die played over the juke box.
‘I love Paul McCartney.’ Said one of the lads.
‘I’ve met him.’ said the Queen.
‘At one of his gigs?’
She thought back to her Jubilee celebration concert during which Macca had performed on the roof of Buckingham Palace.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Something like that.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s cool, y’know? He should go easy on the hair dye though. You don’t see me dying my hair.’
The two men laughed.
After beating both of them at darts the Queen finished her pint. Keep practising, lads, she called as she headed for the door.
She entered a pub up the road. One her way to the bar she noticed the pool table in the far corner of the room. The Queen quickly ordered a pint of lager and went to the pool table.
The two lads in tracksuits were focused on their game as she approached.
‘Can I play the winner?’ she asked.
The man taking his shot glanced up, his chin still resting on the pool cue.
‘Really? You want a game?’
‘Yeah, mate. Don’t worry I’ll go easy on you.’ she said.
They laughed. A few minutes later one of them potted the black ball. He pointed his cue at the Queen.
‘Right, love. You’re up.’
The Queen took a swig of her pint.
‘Rack ‘em up then, young un.’
He smiled and arranged the red and yellow balls in the triangle on the table. As they played the Queen pulled a packet of cigarettes from her pocket. She lit a cigarette with her plastic lighter. She took a long drag.
‘They don’t let you smoke in pubs these days.’ said one of the lads.
‘You’ll have to go outside.’ said the other.
The Queen shrugged. She took her next pool shot with the cigarette dangling from her lips.
Five minutes later the barman rushed over waving his hands in protest.
‘You can’t smoke in here. Pleas go outside.’
‘Come of it.’ said the Queen.
‘Either put it out or take it outside.’
‘Don’t me tight.’
‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’
‘I’m ninety years old. Are you seriously kicking me out into the cold dark night? I’m a frail old lady.’
‘You are drinking lager and playing pool. You’re hardly a little old lady.’
She necked the last of her pint. She jabbed a finger at the barman.
‘Your beer tastes like Corgi’s urine anyway.’
She waved goodbye to the lads and bowled out the doors.
In the next pub a man in his early twenties was yelling Jumping Jack Flash the Rolling Stones into the karaoke machine. The Queen laughed as she headed to the bar. The young lad was actually singing worse than Mick Jagger. When the song finished he took a bow and went to get himself a drink. As the Queen took a sip of her first pint the singer was ordering his beer next to her.
‘You like the Stones?’ she asked.
‘Love ‘em.’ he beamed.
‘Keith is a legend.’ said the Queen. ‘He’s really growing old disgracefully. He’s still polite face to face though.’
‘You’ve actually met them?’
‘Yeah, a few times. Mick is a decent feller but Keith is the heart and soul of the band.’
‘Amazing. Mind you, no offence, but the Stones is your era, isn’t it?’
The Queen pointed at him.
‘Precisely. Rock music finished with the Sixties. These young nobbers these days calling themselves rock stars. Don’t make me laugh. Pete Doherty? Pah! He’s a quilt. Come back when you’ve smoked a Jamaican cigarette with Keith Moon. And the Antarctic Monkeys act like they invented rock and roll. Not fit to tune Pete Townshend’s guitar.’
The man laughed then spoke.
‘Do you like football?’
‘Not really. Having said that I was at Wembley in Nineteen Sixty six.’
‘I want to buy you a drink. You’re a blooming legend, love.;
‘I wouldn’t say no to a Jameson’s whiskey.’
‘Make it a double.’ he replied.
An hour later the Queen entered another pub. At the bar she noticed a bloke sitting at the bar. He wore a shirt and tie and a miserable expression. He stared into his pint as though he would find the answers to his problems at the bottom of the glass. The Queen ordered a lager and gave the man a nudge.
‘You okay, mate?’
‘Not really.’
‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve been made redundant.’
‘Sorry to hear that.’
‘I worked my backside off for ten years and just like that I’m out the door.’
‘You’re joking?’
He shook his head.
‘Let me buy you a drink.’ she said.
‘No, you’re okay.’
The Queen waved over the barman. She ordered two pints and two whiskey chasers.
‘I don’t drink whiskey.’ he said.
‘You do today.’ said the Queen.
She slammed the drinks down in front of him.
‘For medical purposes.’ she grinned. ‘A drop of the pure cures everything.’
He managed a smile. He sipped his whiskey. He grimaced as it burned his throat.
‘I can’t believe I’ve lost my job.’
‘You’ve been laid off. That’s not getting the sack. Sounds like you were due a change anyway.’
He nodded.
‘If you could do anything at all what would you do?’
‘I’ve always had this dream of being a chef. Always fancied it ever since I was a kid. But, as you do, I kind of drifted into office work. Next thing, I’ve been working in accounts for ten years.’
‘Another drink?’
‘Why not?’
As they got started on the next round of drinks the man leaned in close.
‘You know who you look like?’ he asked.
‘It is me.’ she whispered.
‘No way. You don’t sound like the Queen.’
She cleared her throat.
‘It gives me great pleasure to be here today.’ She chirped in the distinctive voice.
The man stared in shock.
‘That’s my work voice. Don’t you have a phone voice at work? And it’s the same with the clothes I wear for work. I can’t wait to get home and get into my scruffs.’
The guy took a swig of his pint.
‘You’re just like the rest of us, aren’t you?’
‘Don’t tell anyone.’ She pressed a finger to her lips.
‘I won’t, promise.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Robert Scarlett.’
‘Do you fancy a curry, Rob?’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘You can knock that off. I’m not on duty. Come on. I could murder a Chicken Madras.’
Having dined on Indian food and several pints of Cobra lager the Queen and Rob went their separate ways.
‘Good luck for the future.’ The Queen said.
‘You too. I’ll think of tonight every time I see your face on a fiver.’
The Queen gave him a wink and made her way in the direction of Buckingham Palace.
Two days later Rob Scarlett received a letter from Buckingham Palace. The letter offered him a place as a trainee chef in the Royal kitchens.

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