A right (royal) pain in the arse
by Katrina Bennett
19th November 2018
The excitement was palpable.
Not since Kanye stopped taking his meds and popped into the Oval Office wearing a MAGA cap hugging The Donald, had the media been in such a frenzy.
The princeling and Megs were coming to town.
The Duke of Sussex, Earl of Dumbarton, Baron Kilkeel a.k.a. Prince “The royal ranga” Harry of House Windsor and his matrimonial mate, Meghan of Mad House Markle had landed on Australian soil.
Treated to such mundane Australian stereotypical adventures like cuddling a koala at Taronga Zoo, cuddling some cute kids in a drought affected area, cuddling a cute lifeguard at Bondi, avoiding the cuddles at Government House from Republicans and climbing some random bridge in Sydney.
The highlight of the Royal visit was yet to come.
Wait. Hold up. What?
The highlight was yet to come?
His royal Fanta-pants and the TV star could barely contain their excitement over their adventure further south to Victoria.
The Duchess had been combing the internet for some local designers and had settled on a lovely tie-died trouser suit from the St Andrews market.
Meanwhile Our Royal/Duke/Earl/Baron/Ginger Ninja was frothing over the prospect of cutting the ribbon at the grand opening of the Eighth Engineering Wonder of the World.
The real reason for the Royal visit had been revealed.
The beaming newly weds were here to flick the switch on the Research Road and Kangaroo Ground Road intersection traffic lights.
Shining a beacon of light and hope over improved traffic conditions, symbolising the greatest reunification since David Hasselhoff glued Deutschland back together.
The crowning glory of the you-beaut, wider-than-two-utes bridge.
Turns out, things didn’t quite go to plan.
In fact, the proverbial wheels started to fall off the Royal Caravan and accompanying media circus as soon as the bloodnut and the world’s favourite American divorcee’s plane landed at Melbourne Airport.
“Sorry your Royal Highness, but the Tullamarine Freeway is at a standstill after an accident,” announced the unwitting Uber driver who’d got the fateful call.
“No problems, we have the common touch, we’ll catch the Airport Link train to the city,” replied no-fuss-Harry.
“Er, sorry, but er, that hasn’t been built yet,” stammered someone official.
“Well, I’ve always wanted to catch a world-famous Melbourne Tram,” Harry graciously answered.
“Er, sorry, but er, the tram won’t get you to Warrandyte and the connecting Doncaster Rail Link hasn’t been built yet,” stammered someone official.
“Happy to jump in a helicopter,” responded Harry, smile starting to slip.
“Er, sorry, but er, Warrandyte is a no-fly zone.
“Every time a helicopter flies over the area, the Warrandyte Business and Community Facebook page goes into meltdown, taking up the entire 24kB/s bandwidth leading to all telecommunications to cease, water pressure to drop and the recycling bin not to get picked up for two weeks!,” stammered someone official.
Shaking his head, our trusty Rusty Duke, whispers to his lady: “Maybe we should just let this lot become a Republic”.
Across the airport’s long term carpark a voice boomed “Hey mate, you need a lift to Warrandyte?” as two muscly legged black-and-green-lycra-clad blokes pedalled furiously towards the royal party.
“Jump on, we can dink you there,” our two wheeled heroes added.
“That would be lovely,” replied the Duchess, now very pleased she had chosen the tie-died pant suit.
The cut making it easy to mount a bike and the tie-die covering up all evidence of mud splatter.
As our Warrandyte Mountain Bike Club heroes pedalled their precious cargo into town, our ever inquisitive kissed-by-fire sixth-in-line-to-the-throne exclaimed in wonder.
“Where are all the people?”
“Er, sorry, but er, the bridge is closed.
“No one can come south, so they’ve all gone to Eltham to get their morning coffee, smashed avo and groceries,” stammered someone official
“But aren’t we here to open the bridge?
“Don’t I get to cut the ribbon?
“Don’t I get to flick the switch on the traffic lights?” replied our copper-top, all but rubbing a bald patch on the back of his head.
“Er, sorry, but er, the bridge is nowhere near finished, we have some traffic light poles but they aren’t connected to anything, there aren’t any switches yet and no one has ordered the ribbon,” stammered someone official.
“But wasn’t is all supposed to be finished by fire season, I mean after, I mean September?” replied the Earl of Dumbarton, understanding dawning on him, he had actually found the dumb town he was Earl of.
“Er, sorry, but er, we had delays with… and…and…and…” droned on someone official.
“Well, I’m pleased to announce that the Duchess of Sussex is pregnant.
“Maybe the bridge will be completed by the time our child has come of age and they can do the grand opening,” replied the proud father to be.
“Er, sorry, but er, wait. What. Hold up. That’s a brilliant idea. It might almost be finished by then,” stammered someone official.