King Charles had a run in his stocking, but he couldn't find a seamstress – the kind they had in the good old days of the 19th century, possibly a three-year-old covered in soot, smoking cigars, and hacking out a lung or two – so he must do it himself.
The Queen said she "shall neither knit nor sew nor touch string in any of its forms," so Charles is scuppered there too.
He asked the poor suckers who wash his dishes and cook his food and who make sure the toilet paper on the roll is hanging the correct royal way, and still they all said, "We don't know how to do that, Your Lordship."
He sent his nylons out to the Royal Stitcher (if that doesn't sound like a horror movie waiting to happen) who then said, "Too busy, Your Kingliness. I have torn knickers all over me shop. Ever since Your Person became officially Kingly, the British public have been at it like rabbits, thinking things will never change, the medieval will always exist in these isles, no checks and balances, no voting yourself into office, knights without shining armor getting invites to all the good parties while the scum attempt to protest about their rights, LMAO, before the cops move in... so off come the knickers – which tears the shite out of them. Beg pardon, Your... uh... Fanciness."
Charles has many fancy knickers and nylons and ermine and weasels hanging about his person, but no one to stitch them up when the King gets a bit too active... walking from one royal gold-laden palace to another...
If you know how to work a needle and thread, please contact Buckingham Palace and say you're ready to sew up the King's knickers. He'll know what it's about.
