It’s been ever such a long time since the royal family was good for anything in particular beyond hooking in the odd tourist with overpoweringly attractive lures like their crown jewels (oh you know what I meant). However, one day poor little Nick Clegg was crying by himself in the corner. It had been a horrible day in the house of commons, nobody had liked his ideas and he knew that the Tory boys sniggered about him behind his back. He’d also made the perilous mistake of checking Twitter. It wasn’t fair, this wasn’t what he’d wanted at all, not in the slightest. In his dreams he could transport himself back to the heady days of ‘I agree with Nick.’
While there was very sadly absolutely no way to turn back the clock and reverse his lamentable decision to get into bed with all the wrong people (apart from his wife of course, he knew full well what side his bread was buttered with her and no mistake. Or something of that ilk), there was some hope for him after all. All it took was a short whisper in his ear from a sweet monarchy scented bird in his ear and he was off. He resigned from his wretched government position, left his woebegone party in the dust and entirely turned his back on however many of his constituents who still trusted him.
Then he plunged headfirst into his blessed, perfect day. He became the glorious white knight, righting wrongs and distributing alms among the poor straight from the benevolent ruling family. He rose to the occasion and finally fulfilled his sainted ambition of becoming truly beloved by the people around him. Screw politics, this was the way to get the public properly on your side. Give them free money with a warm hand rather than tax breaks for millionaires. It was a wonderful coma that Mr Clegg slipped into, one where he was the Royal Charity Champion for just one day.