Windsor Castle
March 1, 2020

Dear Commoners,

For some time now, curious people have speculated on what is in the handbag I carry around with me. Apparently, there is also interest in the “secret signals” I supposedly send with my bag. If people wish to engage in speculation, I am not one to say “Get a life.” Yet several suggestions have come to my attention of late that are so far off the mark, I feel compelled to speak out.

It is true that I carry a pair of reading glasses. I’m 93 years old, for Christ’s sake. It is not true that I carry a pair of trick eyeglasses with the eyeballs permanently stuck open so I can doze off when the head of some third-world country keeps pestering me about where I get my hats (they’re bespoke, duh).

It is true that I carry with me a £5 or £10 note to donate to the church collection on Sundays. It is not true that I carry a stash of £1 note bills, which I stuff into the thongs of male pole dancers in dimly lit strip clubs off Piccadilly Circus. What made you even think of such a thing, you filthy guttersnipe.

It is true that I have dog, horse and saddle trinkets, given me by my children. It is not true that I have voodoo dolls of Donald Trump and Jair Bolsonaro. It would be inappropriate to stick pins in the leader of another sovereign nation until he is writhing on the ground, crying, “All right, already, global warming is real.”

It is true that I carry a mobile phone, which I use to stay in touch with my grandchildren. It is not true that I use it to play Candy Crush, to rack up savings on Rakuten, or to call Taco Dave’s for take-out. I’m the Queen of England, you dotard.

It is true I carry a fountain pen. It is not true that I use it to sign autographs. You’re thinking of the other Queen of England. And I’m not sure Elton signs autographs any more.

It is true I carry a tube of lipstick. It is not true that it doubles as a gas grenade, which I use while flying in light aircraft, to fill the cabin with disorienting gas, incapacitating the enemy and enabling me to parachute to safety. That’s James Bond in You Only Live Twice, you ignoramus.

As to secret signals, it is true that, when I place my bag on the table at dinner, I’m signaling that I want the event to end in five minutes. It is not true that, if I place it at a 45-degree angle from my right eyebrow, I am signaling that I would like the floor to be cleared, a disco ball to drop from the ceiling and a band to assemble and launch into a rousing version of Night Fever, so I can cut a rug. There is a time and place for everything. And, anyway, Philip always makes excuses when I ask him to dance. And who am I going to dance with? President Zelensky? I understand he is an excellent dancer, but I wouldn’t want to pressure him.

It is true that I carry a few good luck charms in my bag. It is not true that I carry the real Crown jewels so I can keep an eye on them, while the ones in The Tower of London are merely paste copies. Have you ever seen the Crown jewels? It’s a lot of rocks and they’d hardly fit in my little bag.

It is true that I have a photo of Prince Andrew, showing him on his safe return from the Falklands in 1982. It is not true that I have photos of him exiting Jeffrey Epstein’s mansion with glazed eyes. Who do you think I am, David Pecker, doing a catch and kill?

It is true that I own 200 handbags from London designer Launer. So what? Imelda Marcos owned 3,000 pairs of shoes. And my bags are not just fashion statements but practical accessories in which, should I need to, I can add a voodoo doll. I’m not a vindictive woman, but that mop-top megalomaniac lied to me about the real reason he wanted to shut down Parliament. Fool me once…

I hope this sets the record straight. If you have any other crackpot ideas, please keep them to yourself. I have a Monarchy to run.

I can’t be taking time to disabuse you peons of every nutty idea you hatch. If you persist in spreading erroneous notions, I will place my handbag on my left shoulder at the baccarat table at the Casino de Monte Carlo. This will be my cue to the waitress to bring me a Shirley Temple, shaken not stirred. And your cue to cut it out already.

Yours sincerely,
Elizabeth R