I, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh, have faced countless challenges throughout my decades-long career. As a member of the British Royal Family and a representative of The Crown, I have survived two World Wars, the formation of the European Union, and now, the novel coronavirus. But today, I face my greatest difficulty yet: I am still in the car.
I have been sitting motionless in the back, middle seat of this car for nine days and nine nights, and not one soul has noticed, cared, or come to my rescue. Help! Help!
On Feb. 16, 2021, I went to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital for a routine surgical operation on my heart. After recovering for several days, I was placed into a vehicle to be transported to my home at Buckingham Palace. And yet...here I remain. Hungry, scared, and lonely, with no hope of seeing the outside world ever again.
Please hurry, the air in here is stale and foul.
One day soon, my wife, Queen Elizabeth, will surely detect my absence, spring into action, and free me from this mortal hell. Or perhaps my son, Prince Charles? Or Boris Johnson! Hello? Anybody? Hello?
In 1921, I was born Prince Philip in Mon Repos on the Greek Island of Corfu. From there, I attended the Cheam School, joined the Royal Army, and married Queen Elizabeth in 1947. And yet today, I lay trapped!
I have no food. No water. No toilet. Several children, pedestrians, and curious spectators have passed by, but they have all seen my face pressed against the glass, balked, and promptly scurried away!
Unbuckle my seat belt! Your Prince commands you!
Make haste before the rest of my bones crumble to dust and this strap severs my body in half.
I’ll never forget the day I married the love of my life, Queen Elizabeth. There she was, at Westminster Abbey, dressed in white, looking ravishing. We danced, we laughed, and we had the most delightful meal. The only nutrients I have had the last few days, I have licked off the floor mats.
I have also eaten a seat cushion.
As I lay here in my final moments, using my last bit of strength to pry open a window, I cannot help but wonder: perhaps this is payback for what I did to my late daughter-in-law, Lady Diana? Or perhaps, for all of the, well, family Nazi stuff? No matter! I will give the first person to open the door the Crown Jewels! I promise!
Otherwise, I will have you executed!
For decades, I have proudly served this family and this country, asking nothing in return. But now, the tables have turned. I call upon the Royal Army, the Royal Navy, and MI6 to find and release me. To the 2.4 billion citizens who I represent, in Britain, Australia, Canada, and the rest of the commonwealth around the world, it is your responsibility, nay, your duty, to unlock this vehicle’s child lock and set me free!
Please? I just want to go home.
My father, Prince Andrew, died as the Prince of Greece and Denmark. Before that, his father, King George I, died as the King of Greece. But I? I am going to die in the car. Aren’t I? Oh God. Oh God.