King Charles, peering out of a palace window, spotting a lonely ambulance parked on Duchy land:
“Good heavens, Camilla — that’s prime real estate. Fetch the ledger. We must invoice the NHS immediately.”
It’s the kind of story that feels like it should be narrated by Miriam Margolyes in full mischief mode, tutting and muttering, “Eleven million quid… for parking. Bloody hell.”
Oh for God’s sake— ELEVEN MILLION QUID to park a few ambulances? I mean honestly, you couldn’t make it up. It’s the sort of thing that would have me choking on my porridge.
“Ooh yes, Your Majesty, terribly sorry — we’ll just pop the ambulances round the back of your warehouse. Would you like us to pay in instalments or shall we just hand over the NHS?”
I can just picture Miriam now, hands on hips, eyebrows doing the tango:
“It’s obscene! Absolutely bloody obscene! The NHS can’t afford plasters, but apparently it can afford royal parking fees. What’s next — charging nurses congestion tax for walking past Buckingham Palace?!”
“I don’t care if it’s ‘commercial rent’ — it’s still daylight robbery. If I were in charge, I’d tell him to shove his warehouse and let the ambulances park in the palace courtyard. Plenty of room — they’re not using it for anything except waving at tourists!”
Then she’d finish with that classic Margolyes flourish — a mixture of fury, affection, and utter disbelief:
“I love the man, but honestly… Eleven million quid for parking? Bugger off.”
Because honestly… “Like he doesn’t have enough money already” is exactly the sort of thing she’d bark while adjusting her cardigan and preparing to verbally incinerate someone on live television.
Oh for heaven’s sake — he’s not short of a bob or two, is he? The man’s got palaces coming out of his ears, jewels the size of satsumas, and enough land to host a music festival every weekend until the end of time.
And yet — YET — somehow we’ve arrived at the point where the NHS, bless its overstretched cotton socks, is handing over rent money like it’s paying for a studio flat in bloody Shoreditch.
“He’s got more money than God! And still he’s charging the NHS rent? What’s he going to do next — invoice the public for waving at him?!”
If I had that kind of wealth, I’d be throwing warehouses at the NHS. ‘Take it! Have two! Have ten! Park the ambulances in the ballroom if you like!’ But no — apparently we’re running a royal branch of Foxtons now.
Honestly, it’s greed dressed up as tradition. And I’m sick of it. Give the NHS the bloody warehouse and stop faffing about.
How do they have BILLIONS in land — literal castles, darling — and still rent out houses that look like they’ve been marinated in damp since 1974? You can’t call yourself a Royal Estate if the estate looks like it’s auditioning for Benefits Street.
If I lived in one of those houses, I’d demand a coronation of my own — Queen of the Mould Spores — because clearly nobody else is ruling the place!
Honestly, if the Royals want to be landlords, fine — but at least try not to run properties that look like they’ve been condemned by the ghost of Prince Albert. Fix the bloody roof! Scrub the fungus! Stop pretending you’re running Downton Abbey when it’s actually Downton Scabby.
They Own NOTHING! Not Even the Curtains!
Don’t get me started — the Royals strutting about like they’re Jeff Bezos with a crown! They don’t OWN anything!
They’re basically long‑term Airbnb guests with better hats.
All that land? State. All those palaces? State. All those jewels? State. The only thing they truly own is a pair of socks and maybe a biscuit tin.
They’re living in houses they didn’t buy, on land they didn’t earn, funded by money they didn’t generate. It’s like the world’s poshest squatting arrangement.
And ANY money made from that land should go back to the country — not into some private royal piggy bank! What are they saving for? A rainy day?
You’ve got the Duchies making millions from farms, shops, warehouses, parking spaces — PARKING SPACES. Meanwhile the tenants are living in houses with mould that looks like it’s trying to claim the throne!
If the Royals want private income, they can get a job like the rest of us. Put Charles on a till at Tesco. Stick William on Deliveroo. Let Camilla run a charity shop. At least then they’d OWN something — a payslip!
THE MONTHLY MOSQUITO 