After 96 difficult years, Her Majesty has finally passed on to a happier place. A place where Paddington comes for tea every night, and where the FBI only want to have a chat with your son— because he’s just a really super chap.

The royal family have taken centre stage since the death: Charles pushing for a royal sponsorship from Biro; Andrew crying (but not sweating); and Meghan Markle repeatedly dancing on her grandmother in law’s grave (citation needed). 

Of course, many in the public have been hit hard— largely by microphones, as overzealous news reporters begin accosting Londoners as they try and draw out some newsworthy tears. Woe betide those who do not join in the Stalinesque festival of praise. In the spirit of collective mourning and a united nation, those who find Andrew’s “enthusiasm” for young girls distasteful (or question the idea of a royal family at all) are promptly arrested by the police. As always ,the palace PR machine is in overdrive in response to recent arrests. And already, rumours are swirling of a biopic for her Maj. So I thought I’d throw in my pitch for her big screen debut.

London: 1926. A young Elizabeth (played by posh British dramatist or American with dodgy accent), stumbles into her slum neighbourhood. Her humble mining family add the streak of ubiquity that she’s so well celebrated for.

Due to her poor background, Lizzie cannot go to school. Instead, she works long hours as a labourer. In the night, she teaches slum children how to read. “Wouldn’t you like a marmalade sandwich, dear?” asks her mother. But Lizzie refuses. “I cannot eat until the proletariat of the world all have full bellies.”

Lizzie begins to perform musicals on the streets of London. Her rousing performance— about why we should keep the Elgin Marbles— causes the royal family to seek her out and adopt her. Lizzie finds it hard to fit in being a princess and often scales the palace walls to talk to old slum friends and talking animals that follow her everywhere.

After her ascension, Queen Lizzie has a raft of new problems to deal with. She begins losing all her friends (former colonies). The government keep passing laws that require people of colour to be given opportunities in all sectors (in a triumphant moment the Queen makes herself exempt from this rule). And despite her best efforts to single-handedly mould the NHS and welfare state (are you sure you’ve got this right? —Editor’s note), she can still see 'poors' from each of her many palaces.

Anyway, maybe it isn’t so bad that we’re all being frogmarched into synchronised mourning. The whole point of the monarchy is to reinforce the idea of a natural hierarchy. Some are rich; some are poor, and that’s the way God meant it. As we enter a winter of discontent where many may feel poor like never before, isn’t it important that that message is drummed into us again, lest we begin to look upwards and start asking questions?