His Royal Highness, The Duke Of Edinburgh, has passed away, aged 97. Deadpool players in offices across the country finally have their man.
A stalwart at Her Majesty The Queen’s side throughout the decades, he was always there when a tactless, snidey, occasionally racist put down was required.
Known informally as Phil The Greek, he was a lover of country sports always willing to shoot anything. A keen and expert carriage driver, too, he kept a black cab around the back of The Palace for when he needed to nip out to the gunsmith’s shop.
It was on Royal walkabouts, though, that he most excelled. Always the requisite number of paces behind his wife, he had perfected the art of talking about the weather when star-struck Royal watchers had their moment in the sun and became flustered over small talk.
He never met Republicans demanding to know the window cleaning bill for the outside of The Palace. Had such an oik had made it kerbside, under cover of waving a small flag, Phil would have been more than happy to drag the scoundrel out of the crowd, to be shot.
Many a Royal Tournament was watched, many an bare breasted naked lady ogled or despotic potentate indulged. All the while quietly wishing he was at home, but still he look entertained.
Never one to misplace his sense of entitlement, he was happy to disregard the squalor the poor people lived in to afford him the regal lifestyle.
He leaves a Greek bloodline in future generations of Royals, to go alongside the German and recently introduced American versions, and will be sadly missed by the people who give up their Christmas Day morning to stand outside Sandringham Church in the freezing cold.
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