Just think of the devastation in the lawn bowls community alone.
Her Majesty Elizabeth had this royal relevance thing down to a fine art.
When her popularity started to dip, she’d release a video of her having afternoon tea with Paddington Bear, complete with marmalade sandwiches.
Boom — instant national treasure status restored.
The woman could make opening an envelope look charming with her matching handbags.
But Charles?
Poor bloke’s been giving earnest speeches about organic farming and heritage architecture.
Meanwhile, the Commonwealth yawns and scrolls past his social media content, still holding out hope for a video of Paddington sharing a sandwich with Ryan Reynolds.
So, here’s a wild thought — 775 rooms at Buckingham Palace; most of them just collecting dust and knick-knacks gifted by foreign dignitaries.
You just know there are hundreds of Buzzy Bees under those beds, and probably a pāua shell ashtray from the 1980s that some well-meaning Kiwi dignitary thought would “really tie the room together”.
What if Uncle Charles and Aunty Camilla turned the joint into the ultimate Commonwealth crash pad?
Picture this: You’re a broke Kiwi backpacker in London. Wallet stolen. Living off Percy Pigs and instant noodles.
Suddenly — boom!
A Royal Backpackers app notification: “Room available tonight at Buck House. Full English included. Host: Charles (83), enjoys gardening and talking to plants”.
Imagine waking up to the smell of bacon sizzling on the palace barbie.
You shuffle downstairs in your jandals to find His Majesty manning the grill in a “King of the Sausage” apron, spatula in one hand, cup of tea in the other.
And this isn’t just about accommodation — it’s about connection.
The throne might be inherited, but relevance has to be earned.
And right now, Charles is in real danger of becoming as obsolete as a fax machine or a VHS tape of Die Hard.
So, here’s the challenge, Your Majesty: ditch the formal receptions and the ribbon-cutting.
Fire up the barbie, stock the fridge, and we’ll bloody show up to your birthday like it’s a free cattle prod at Fieldays.
Because if you nail this, we can all sing en masse as we raise an overdone cheese sizzler in salute:
God save our grilling King,
Long live the sausage King,
Charles makes it sing!
Now that’s a monarchy worth keeping — and a long weekend worth fighting for.
Happy Birthday, Uncle Charles.
