"No one cares how you feel." A very candid leaked diary entry from the Queen.


Dear Diary,

Okay. No. 

I’m. About. To. Lose. My. Shit.

Last time I wrote to you, my 98-year-old husband had just rolled his car and nearly killed a baby, and I recall writing the words, “at least things can’t get any worse”. How wrong I was.

My psychologist (her name is Trish, she has a short, funky hair-do and wears colourful scarves. I like her very much) has suggested I journal. Over the weekend, I felt so angry I threw my umbrella at no one in particular and, look, I think the whole thing really alarmed her. So here I am. ‘Journaling’ or whatever she calls it.

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Where to even begin.

It’s times like these I desperately miss the corgis. They were so simple and loyal. Sometimes I watch videos of them when I feel a bit down. I even have one where Linnet snapped at Meghan. Bit her on the shin! Oh, I shouldn’t laugh. But goodness that dog had personality.


I suppose there’s just one question I keep coming back to…

Since when is literally anyone allowed to quit being royal? 

In case anyone’s forgotten, I’m ninety-goddamn-THREE. A few months off ninety four. I challenge you to find anyone else my age who is still working around the clock in a job they’ve had since they fell out of the womb.

I’m tired and my feet hurt. I feel like watching the midday movie and staying there until June. I want to read crime novels and go on a dirty cruise where there’s dress up nights and scotch and sodas are included. I desperately want to wear loose fitting slacks and patterned blouses without a bra and orthopaedic shoes from the chemist.

But that’s not how life works. Instead, you get up everyday. You put on your hat. You put on your gloves. You put on your petticoat and your stockings and maybe a tasteful brooch, and you get on with it. Until you die.

Have I enjoyed every day of it? F*ck no. Most of the time I want to tear off my purple tweed coat and pull on a snuggie, but that’s. not. the. rules.

Meghan and Harry get to write their own rules though. In America it’s all about ‘joy’ and ‘fulfilment’ and ‘YOLO’ and ‘drawing boundaries’ and everyone thinks they’re a bloody guest on Dr Phil.

But… how do I put this politely?


No one cares how you feel. 

Oh yes that feels nice to write down.

Have you seen my husband? Do you think he’s feeling good? He hasn’t had any colour in his face since ’02. We’re both tired and would love to just chill in some upmarket retirement home but unfortunately we’re too busy upholding a 1500 year old monarchy.

At this point, I feel like my son, Prince Andrew, is the only one I can trust. Other than befriending a convicted sex offender that one time who ran a decades long sex-trafficking scheme, and allegedly having sex with a 17-year-old who later turned out to be a victim of said sex-trafficking scheme, what has he ever done?

It is ridiculous – nay, absurd – to think my son had sex with a 17-year-old when of course he was at his favourite eatery, Pizza Express.

But alas, I digress.

This is about Harry and Meghan. Like literally everything is.

I was quite enjoying my break this year – catching up on Love Island UK before the next season started – when I was told of their Instaface post or whatever it’s called.

I’d heard rumours. Harry even tried to speak to me about it a few days before but I told him to chat to his dad instead because I was in the middle of reading something about a Love Island affair gone wrong.

Instead, they just announced it, and I was so cross that I did what any betrayed grandmother would do.


I called the wax museum and told them to remove Harry and Meghan (they didn’t have an Archie yet, I checked) from their royal display immediately, and use the melted wax to add a few extra corgis.

It felt good, but Trish the psychologist said this behaviour could be read as “petty” and that’s one of the things I have to work on this year. Little does she know that at 93 I refuse to work on sh*t.

My press release in response was read as cold and laced with anger, mostly because it… was. Both of those things. My grandson and his wife just chose to abandon the family, but were keen to keep a) their cottage that they renovated with royal funds and b) their titles. I don’t get to say “I’M THE QUEEN” and then dance on a table during ‘Disco Night’ on my European river cruise now do I? We all make sacrifices.

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Now I’m reading headlines that say I’m upset because I’ve only seen Archie a handful of times. Dear. God. I’ve had four of my own children. The first SEVENTY ONE YEARS AGO. I have eight grandchildren. And seven great grandchildren. If I see one more first tooth I’ma yell. Archie’s fine but don’t ask me to babysit him. I’ve done my bit.

After a conference call and at least 14 meetings that could have been emails, we’ve come to some sort of agreement. And now that I really think about it, perhaps I don’t begrudge Harry and Meghan.


I think maybe that… I would also like to leave the royals. And go to Canada.

They have bears and elk and moose. I like the way Canadians say the word “about” (a-boot) and Justin Trudeau is very handsome.

But who would I even resign to? Philip? Because he a) wouldn’t care and b) is obviously just going wherever I go.

Charles? He’d probably start crying and saying that he doesn’t want to be a royal either and request he and Camilla be allowed to just live in Dubrovnik now. (No).

Andrew? I couldn’t trust him to manage a crisis, as wonderful as he is. Last time he had to front the media he referred to the actions of a sex offender as “unbecoming” and then suggested that he spent a weekend with Jeffrey Epstein to tell him they can’t be friends anymore. I’m his mother and even I think that sounds ridiculous.

I think Charlotte is my woman. She’ll listen. Plan a decoy. Maybe push George over at a royal engagement and distract the press from my escape. She’s honestly got more grit than the rest of them put together.

Now excuse me, diary. I have some work to do.

* Note. This is not a real diary entry from the Queen.