A Great Day For Children Everywhere

  The terrible tragedy in Nepal, in which the 30-year-old Crown Prince gunned down the Royal Family following a family dinner at which they rowed about his choice of a bride, proves yet again that royalty get to do those things the rest of us can only dream of doing.
  Which of us has not been stuck at a god-awful family dinner and yearned to machine-gun the whole bloody lot of them? Especially during adolescence (30 can still be adolescence nowadays, as I can vouch), which of us has not had to endure a stomach-churning meal full of taunts and jeers about our choice of loved one, our career plans, our political views or our desire to paint our bedrooms black, from know-all parents and sycophantic siblings, and longed to repay their verbal sniping with a more physical kind?
  To enjoy this story as much as I have, you have to imagine the bloody annoying things they would have shouted after him as he left the table to go and fetch his gun.
  I just know his dad would have been going, "Ooh, Mr. Grumpy, that's right, go on, stamp off to your bedroom, Mr. Dramatic, oh, oh, James Dean, that's right, go and lie on your bed and listen to The Smiths."
  And his mum would have been going, "Don't you dare leave the table before you've had your pudding."
  And his sisters would have been going, "He's so immature, but we're good children, aren't we?"
  And then he came back.
  "Oh, here he comes back now, that's right, bang down the stairs, wear out the carpets, nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I'm going to the garden to eat worms...er...you can take a joke, can't you, son?"
  "Don't be so temperamental. Stop shooting your father and sit down and eat your pudding."
  "Eat hot lead, Mum. Oh - chocolate cake."
  I think we should beware of copycat killings among other royal families. For one thing, I don't think the Queen's going to be giving Prince Charles any shit about Camilla any time soon.
  Really, all Charles needs to do is just polish his hunting weapons half an hour before the next family dinner and the whip hand is his.
  Chaz to Liz: "I'm not taking any more shit. I'm marrying Camilla and that's it."
  "Yes you are."
  Chaz to Phil: "And no more of your lip, either, you fucking ancient Greek ruin."
  "Fine, son."
  Chaz to Queen Mum: "And you, Gran...stop making old woman slobbery noises when you eat. I mean, Jesus."
  "I've just put one out, Mr. Churchill."
  "Shut up. Don't even talk. There's gonna be a lot of changes around here. You're stepping down, Mum, for a kick-off, and I'm taking over. Okay? Or else. I wouldn't mind being on a life-support machine with a bullet in my brain as long as I could be King. They could just wheel me out for state occasions. Mr. Blair would like that. And I'm painting my bedroom black and getting my nose pierced. And I'm gonna join The Goons like I wanted. You've ruined my life."
  That would be ace, having a King on a life-support machine, I hope they don't switch the poor bugger off.
  "And now, a Christmas message from the King."