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As the jigsaw-loving Queen settles into the eternal creation of her own 206-piece puzzle in the crypt beneath Windsor Chapel, a bereft and aimless public has already started to fill the void left by the greatest mass participation event since the Poet Laureate invited suggestions to rhyme with ‘Jeremy Hunt’.


Around 2 million people have already formed into an orderly crocodile to pay their respects at the official commemorative site of the end of the queue for the Queen’s lying in state, situated handily and reverentially just outside the Southward Park Pavilion Café public toilets. Currently stretching 350 miles, the new Glorious and Unending Queue is expected to continue for many joyously pointless and economy-sapping years.


‘The Queue is dead, long live The Queue,’ intoned Fiona Gribbons, a full time mum from Hexham until being blissfully taken up by ‘shuffle-along rapture’ last week. ‘I’ve locked my kids in with a pile of McDonalds vouchers from the Metro and, more importantly, my open social media feed. They- and potentially some suspiciously DNA-repeat-to-fade grandchildren by then- are going to be so proud of Mummy when I get home around 2037.’



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Leaving detailed plans covering every aspect of her funeral, the Queen has bequeathed her delighted subjects one last surprise by commanding it comprise an elegiac homage to classic sitcom ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. The last monarch ever to sit on a horse sideways will also become the first to have their coffin laboriously shoved up the steps of Westminster Abbey sticking out of a rusty wheelbarrow at an angle described reverentially by David Dimbleby as ‘jaunty’.


Breaking with centuries of royal convention, the crown which traditionally adorns the royal casket has been ditched in favour of a pair of wrinkled stockings, which will end up being inexplicably donned by one of the aged/inebriated/incontinent pallbearers after a laboured ‘wardrobe malfunction’ skit involving oversized tweed trousers, bale string, and a RADA-trained ferret called Mr Pickles.


Watched by millions worldwide, the solemn service will close with the ceremonial skidding of the bathtub containing Her Majesty’s mortal remains into the royal vault beneath Windsor Castle, followed by a lovely spread of Mr Kipling mini Battenbergs and Camp coffee for the dozens of heads of state in bewildered attendance.


‘It shouldn’t really be a surprise,’ said a Palace spokesperson, carrying a bucket of ball bearings into St George’s Chapel. ‘As a lady of a certain generation, the Queen didn’t really take to any comedies written after 1978. We’re just glad we managed to talk her out of an Alf Garnet/Love Thy Neighbour interval double-act- let’s face it, the Duke of Edinburgh’s Black and White Minstrel memorial extravaganza remains pretty 'wake-up-clammy-in-the-dark-watches' unbeatable.’


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