The guards outside Buckingham Palace are sweating in those giant disco beaver hats. They need water. It’s a frickin’ heatwave, baby!
Given the fashion of the guards and that pesky thing known as the weather, Buckingham Palace is reconsidering getting with the times.
Soon, no longer will they have to wear tight, strangling suits and those Marge Simpson black furry hats, instead, they will reflect the glory days of what Britain once was.
They will dress as cave men. Wearing loin cloths (for Her Majesty’s pleasure) made of endangered tiger skins, they will hoist a big wooden Fred Flintstone club over their shoulders as they march bare foot back and forth, back and forth, going nowhere, doing very little guarding of anything or anyone.
If it’s all about appearance and tribal ceremony, then why not go back, back, way back to the ancient past? Beyond Merlin and Arthur and Richard Harris singing Camelot … past the Celts and the Stonehengers and Mound Builders and whoever scratched that big guy with the boner into the hill … back back back, I say!
If anyone tries to enter the Palace without the Queen’s permission, they will get clubbed to death, then their remains will be slowly cooked over a fire at the Victoria Memorial.
Fire good, beaver hats bad!
