Dear Charlie,

May I call you Charlie? After what I’ve been through in the last week, I feel as if I really know you. Like you’re family. Actually, given the state of your family, that’s probably the wrong thing to say. Like a friend, then. Not one of those friends who spike your drink so they can get jiggy with your girlfriend in the bogs, obviously. A proper friend.

I do apologise. It just occurred to me that you’ve probably had a worse week. All I’ve had to do is watch it on television. On every channel. On every station. Around the clock. For days on end.

My condolences on your mother finally reaching her expiry date. I don’t mean to make her sound like a Woolworth’s pudding. She was so much better than that. Lasted a lot longer, too. And way better value for money.

I met her once, you know? She might have mentioned it, but you wouldn’t remember. Sons instinctively block out what their mothers tell them. It’s a survival mechanism. Perhaps it was the other way around for you. After hearing, “Oh, do bugger off, Charles, I am not abdicating” for the 750^th time, I imagine you’d stop listening. Or stop asking.

I met her at a garden party at the British ambassador’s house in Windhoek. It was very hot and I had been drinking earlier. By the time she reached me in the line, I was dying for a wee and instead of bowing, I curtsied. Easier on the bladder. She looked me in the eye, flinched ever so slightly and turned to the next person. Bringing up the rear, your father asked what it was that I did. When I said I was a journalist, he grimaced and replied, “Not my favourite people.” I tried explaining that I wasn’t like the others, but he moved on quickly.

Speaking of which, what an abrupt transition! You had barely wiped your siblings’ spittle from your hands, their fickle pledges of fealty still ringing in your ears, before encountering what seemed like hordes of Chelsea supporters who were mourning at halftime but were now celebrating at the final whistle.

In Africa, we drink and dance whether we’re celebrating or mourning. Our leaders are not pre-ordained to inherit power. There is no divine right of kings here. There is only money and guns.

Here, the electorate is red in tooth, claw and eye. We don’t fanny about with metaphysical frameworks and religious legitimacy. It’s too hot for all that malarkey. And we wouldn’t have anything suitable to wear, anyway. Could always break out the number one loincloths, I suppose.

She was lovely, your mum. I liked her. Never gave the impression of being up to her armpits in extrajudicial assassinations and massive corruption. A real lady. Not to be trifled with, for sure. But not the type to order a hit on someone who disrespected her. I’m thinking of Donald Trump, here. Pity.

So she left you six castles, one of our diamonds, a pack of stinky corgis, all the swans and Australia, Canada and New Zealand. I’ll be lucky to get a dented Toyota Yaris and half a house that smells of monkey poo. Then again, I’ll never have to shake the hands of second-class strangers and feign interest in their pointless lives. I can go to the mall without anyone demanding reparations, or worse, trying to hug me.

You’re alright, Charlie. And I’m not just saying that in the hope you’ll grant me citizenship. I don’t want to live in your country. Too many darkies.

Jokes aside, parts of England aren’t too shabby and some of your subjects are sufferable. Better off without Brexit, but there you are. That’s democracy for you. You wouldn’t have found Henry VIII larking about with referendums. Maybe you should try it. The next time the peasants revolt, get medieval on their arses.

Given your genes, poor Wills has a long wait ahead of him. At least he has Kate. I sense a dark side there, though. Skinny girls are all well and good, but they are often prone to sudden surges of extreme physical violence. This could explain why your lad has no hair left.

I think the boy Harry should take over when you fall off your perch. He has Viking blood, that one. Did you know he was shagging a South African lass for a while? It turned out she was too much for him. Not his fault. Cape Town girls go temporarily insane when they come across wealthy, single, heterosexual men and it can be quite frightening.

By the way, I loved all the pomp and ceremony, especially the 21-gun salutes. It’s so refreshing to hear guns being fired without screams and sirens following shortly after.

Anyway, I must go. The servants are standing by to put me in my pyjamas and brush my teeth. It does no good to keep them waiting. That’s how insurrections are born.