Concern is mounting over the safety of the Queen and members of the Royal Family who remain trapped inside their Norfolk hideaway in Sandringham, following a reported coup by flocks of marauding pheasants.
A no-go area has been established around the house whilst locals in near-by villages have been prevented from returning to their London homes following sporadic episodes of pecking outside the deli and early morning cackling outside that dear little Norfolk pub. These villages, ghost towns in the week will now be looking for aid packages throughout the week providing the pheasants allow access; squadrons of RAF Hercules aircraft have flown in crates of Evian water, tubs of couscous, and those little towels one uses to dry off the Spaniel.
The Pheasant invasion is thought to be in response to the Royal Family's annual shoots at the estate where-by thousands of these somewhat attractive birds are blown out of the sky by Prince Phillip, patron of the World Wildlife Fund, and his Burberry-clad henchmen.
Juvenile gangs were first seen running aimlessly across the road by the estates main gates, however, they were soon joined by hooded adult pheasants who were seen to be organising things with walkie talkies. The first signs of concern were raised when Princess Ann's dog, Cerebus, was set upon by three rogue pheasants, escaping with slight pecking wounds. Shortly afterwards, Prince Charles' attempts to talk to his topiary were thwarted by dive bombing birds, who were, on this occasion, aided by foxes on motorcycles wielding water cannon.
The Prince of Wales is thought to be fine, albeit mentally shaken, and has decided that he will not need his jimmy-jams ironed tonight after all, going straight to bed.
There are now said to be over 2000 birds on the roof and surrounding herbaceous borders of the big house with the Royals still defiantly trapped inside. The tension is palpable and a long night beckons. The Queen has been seen tapping at an upstairs window but, other than that, there is silence, marked only by the ruffling of feathers and the occasional indignant squawk. The pheasants, meanwhile, remain quiet, no doubt planning the next stage of their takeover.
It has just been confirmed that the entrapped villages will now have to subsist on sliced bread instead of Bulgarian nutty olive. Things are looking grim this chilly February evening. Grim indeed.