The One Person Who Can Stop Putin in his Tracks? Her Majesty The Queen

Picture the scene. You are the vile dictator of Russia, Vladimir Vladimirovic Putin, and you are sitting at a conference table smirking away because you know you’re holding the west by the short and curlies. If you were sitting at a Las Vegas poker table, you would be holding seven aces, and the brutish security guys can’t throw you out because you own the casino, and your FSB secret agents have pictures of all the security staff nude…and masturbating. One phone call, and you could blow the lot of them out the water. In short, you are untouchable.

You imagine the map of Europe. Today the borders of The Ukraine will evaporate and be swallowed into the salivating maw of Mother Russia. Tomorrow, Estonia, Latvia, Finland. In time, the whole of Europe will be your playground. In Italian cafes, French Bistros, and reasonably priced British gastropubs they will only serve stewed beetroot and prison vodka.

The double doors of the Premier Inn conference room swing open. Your foreign secretary rushes in puce of face. He looks like his guts have fallen out of his anus. You ask him what’s wrong, but you get a stammered, nonsensical reply.

Then it begins to dawn on you. The one thing you didn’t want to happen. No…It can’t be.

A group of buglers in all their finest livery file into the room. They clutch their meticulously polished horns and purse them to their moistened lips. Oh god. Please. No!

The blast from the bugles pierces your eardrums. Your guts turn to runny mashed potato.

And in she shuffles. She’s…beautiful…commanding…alluring. But before you can come to your senses, a small ball of beige anger swoops through the room and CHRIST IT’S LEAPING AT YOUR FACE.

“Nyet! Nyet! Gyet zis monster offski!” you cry.

“Down, Tony!” says Her Majesty The Queen, for it is she. Her Head Corgi, Tony, named after her favourite Prime Minister, jumps down from your face and whimpers by her elegant ankles.

For you, Vladimir Vladimirovic Putin, the game is up. Check mate. Offski you goski you meddling buffoon! There is no chance in hell of getting what you want, now. With a scrape of your chair you rise to your feet, make a gentle bow, and gladly sign over the Donbas and Crimea over to her glorious majesty. Why bother negotiating? It’s the god damn Queen!

This is a scene which could be playing out RIGHT NOW if we had a semblance of a competent government. But alas, we have the Clown in Chief wiffle waffling away in Number 10, trying to save his porcine derriere from being evicted by Super Rishi Sunak (great guy!)

Instead, the spoffwangling spunktrumpet went to The Ukraine himself to negotiate. One can imagine his trousers falling down as he shakes Putin’s hand, exposing a pair of skidmarked Union Jack briefs which, incidentally, were put on inside out.

But all is not lost. If everyone who reads this writes a letter or sends a fax to Her Majesty The Queen URGING her to intervene over Putin’s dirty tricks, then she may just listen. But make sure the letters are directed to Her Majesty directly. If her lawyers get hold of them, it’s game over. They would rather she sat around in a gin-soaked stupor watching Bargain Hunt and The Racing Channel. Not our watch, folks. Not on our effing watch!