King Charles III (or, The Nepotist Formerly Known as the Prince of Wales) has reportedly laid out plans for a refurbishment in “one or another” of the wings in Buckingham Palace to help him to deal with the immense pressures of his newly inherited (non-)electorate and the endless money and influence that they provide for him.

According to reports, Charles, the latest iteration of an unelected and unqualified leader at Britain’s helm, has drawn up plans for a no-expense-spayed ‘Throne Womb’ within the residence, designed to resemble “the inside of trousers…or, God forbid, a uterus.” Insiders have disclosed that Charles intends to use his roomy Womb to curl up and hide inside, secreted from @sussexroyal’s Instagram posts and the faint murmurs of any republicans that didn’t already get arrested at the Coronation.

The Palace emphasised that the new, thoroughly modern ‘Throne Womb’ will permit our new, thoroughly modern King to be yet more distant from the citizens that he now rules over by cocooning him in an extra layer of cushy security. At Charles’ insistence, the proper convention is that additional shielding and comfort should be afforded to him, familiarly, by the fortification of a
powerful female body.

In defence of expending another multi-million pound renovation to his 775-bedroom, 78-bathroom pied-à-terre, Charles clarified that, in the wake of taking a ‘vow of cervix’ at his ‘head crowning’, he is merely fulfilling the purpose of contemporary royals: stowing away to maintain an in-utero ignorance to the troubles of less-divine echelons. He explained: “The Throne Womb will emblematically reflect the spirit of my Coronation: drowning out the disapproval of British citizens by any means necessary.”

As we will recall from hours spent glued to screens, fighting for breath as endless berobed White men presented our most blessed White man with another holy orb and/or costume change, the King’s Coronation was seamlessly executed. Like a school play based on what a Year 1 class thinks happens at a coronation, the King was presented with ‘the bracelets of sincerity and wisdom’ before being re-vested into his ‘supertunica’, much to the delight of the anoraked royalists outside Westminster Abbey. One can only imagine the frenzy as virtually tens of people witnessed Prince Harry being shunted next to his creepy uncle in the seating plan.

Charles’ Coronation silenced many critics of the monarchy — often, literally — who argued that a King is not relevant in present-day society; only a man with his finger-furter firmly on the cultural pulse would think to gather treasured national deities Katy Perry, Ant and Dec, and the Vice President of China to bear witness to his sovereign nativity. As these nouveau-wise men watched the King being adorned with the cream of Indian and African mines, you could barely make out the pit-a-pat of peaceful protestors being detained outside.

Some might argue that the building of a gold-plated womb is at odds with Charles’ vigilance towards climate and social issues. Charles’ many years of activism have often involved championing what he calls a ‘lost way of life’ — which roughly translates as a utopic serfdom where everyone composts, eats seasonal vegetables, and does whatever he tells them (also, ideally, the year is 1980; he has just been crowned at age 32; and the whole Diana palaver never happened). The demands do, however, perfectly align with the objective that has most troubled him over his 64 years as prince: having things exactly as and when he wants them.

Although Charles has spoken out several times about how much he likes flowers and trees, as well as how important small family farms are (specifically those in his duchies that provide him with organic eggs and milk every morning), his passion for fulfilling his many whims has been realised in a multitude of notable advocations, such as shipping his own food, artwork, toilet seat, and bed internationally wherever he travels, whatever the environmental cost; having his toothpaste squeezed out for him by staff; and shrieking at the sight of cling film. 

The Palace has responded to cliticism of the revamp by asserting that Charles has correctly followed the Royal protocol in his reaction to public dissatisfaction: by creating another pointless embellishment from an assortment of pillaged precious materials, reminding taxpayers of the immense symbolism that this distinguished analogy for class hierarchy holds, to be enjoyed by maybe 4–6 imperial historians and sycophants who read Tatler.

The King is steadfast in his desire to make the vagi-structural refurbishment quickly: “Even with Camilla’s hectic schedule of calling me special on the hour every hour, she can’t give me all the coddling I need now that she’s taken up queenly duties, like chain-smoking in a tiara and humming ‘All I Do Is Win’ in the mirror.” Prince Andrew has refused to comment on the matter — on account of him being unable to make comments since an incident in the Falklands — but has purportedly been in talks with several interior designers at Pizza Express branches for a separate, “most honourable” personal project.

At least we can be assured that these plans, like many of the Windsor’s grandiose spectacles, will make us all brim with patriotism as we fight our fellow proles for the last yellow-stickered quiche in Tesco.