Housebound - Day 15

The virus twins. Photo courtesy of The Evening Standard

Recent news reports indicate that both Prince Charles and Boris Johnson have contracted COVID-19. 

Apparently, they are quarantined together in Balmoral Castle, in Scotland, and a recording of a recent conversation has gone (ahem)  viral. Below is the transcript.

His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales: God I feel bloody awful. Wot!

Prime Minister Boris Johnson: What?

HRH: Wot!

BJ: What? Charlie, what is it? I'm not following <coughing fit>. Christ it's dusty in here, princey. Bloody mausoleum. Can you open a damn window? At least pull the drapes!

HRH: PM, I'm not going to tell you again: you must cough into your elbow. Stop wiping your hands on the bloody sofa cushions. Bloody Eton. Did they not teach you any manners a'tall?

BJ: At least I didn't get my ass kicked at Cheam, you toff! I heard you majored in Asian Flu.

HRH: That was a serious illness. Similar to what we've both contracted this go around.

BJ: Annus Horribilis.

HRH: What's that mean?

BJ: It's Latin. The loose translation is: you didn't go to Eton.

HRH: I did history, archaeology and anthropology at Trinity.

BJ: I rest my case. Anyway look on the bright side of this virus.

HRH: Which is?

BJ: If your Mum gets it, you might actually gain the throne! You know, if you live. 

HRH: Indeed. I wonder: would it be awfully inconvenient for you to invite her for tea? And then perhaps have one of your coughing fits?

Laughter is heard.

BJ: Charlie, you devilish sod! Let's hope the tabloids don't hear about that dastardly little plan. 

HRH: Is that an email you're typing out? 

BJ: And... send! Uh, no, old chap. Just running the old government remotely. Whole of the country is on lockdown, you know.

HRH: Truly? 

BJ: Yes, Charles. This virus is serious. People are not able to work. 

HRH: You mean like polo? Nobody is able to play?

BJ: No, Chuckles. Work. Jobs. To make bloody coinage. 

HRH: I don't follow. Are they not all on the dole? Like myself?

BJ:  Nevermind. <coughs, wheezes.>

HRH: If only we were able to easily import life-saving drugs from the E.U. Ahem. But you bloody well solved that difficulty, didn't you?

BJ: Britain for the Whites! <coughs> I mean... for the Britons!

HRH: Let me guess, you were for this virus before you were against it?

BJ: Pro-virus polled well for a smidge. When it was just infecting Siam.

HRH: China. In March, didn't you suggest that we in the United Kingdom "take it on the chin" and then you bragged about it being a smashingly good idea to be shaking hands with everyone?

BJ: Did I? That was so long ago. Who remembers?

HRH: It was during a bloody press conference you twit. And can you please run a comb through that haystack you call hair?  

BJ: I wear it this way to hide by big ears.

HRH: You don't say? Maybe I should see your stylist. Would she cut a royal?

BJ: Only if he had it coming!

Laughter is heard, then horrible coughing fits.

BJ: My God man, I'm not sure we're going to make it. 

HRH: Don't despair, old boy. This is England. The Yanks will bail us out. They always have before!

BJ: Trump's in charge now.

HRH: We're doomed.

--Josh Piven