The Queen is going to lead us out of the recession, or so it has been reported. Presumably this will all be done in some ceremonial way. The nation will line up behind the state carriage. The band of the Royal Marines will strike up with Happy Days Are Here Again and one of the Dimblebys will do the BBC commentary.

Meanwhile, members of Team Palace have been told to set an example. There will be no more displays of extravagance. If Prince William wants to marry Kate Middleton in the near future, they’ll have to have their wedding list at Lidl.

But before you get too carried away with austerity at Windsor, Your Majesty, I wonder if you might consider me for a position on your staff that is set to become vacant. I could do with a second job, what with the economic troubles. Plus the hours seem very flexible and the workload light.

So if you’re reading this, ma’am, could I please be the next poet laureate?

My qualifications, I must admit, are a bit flimsy. For six months I was the poet-in-residence at one of those women’s magazines that specialise in stories such as “I gave birth to twin ferrets” or “My holiday romance with a man from Saturn”. I was eventually replaced by a psychic dog.

If you don’t take such magazines at the palace, surely you remember my recent work, published in this very paper – Lines to Suck Up to Her Majesty on the Occasion of Her 80th Birthday:

God save our gracious Queen
Best one there’s ever been
Since records began.
Well, better than Anne,
And much jollier than Victoria
(Who was a stranger to euphoria).
God save our gracious Queen!
My, what a lot you’ve seen,
All of those colours you’ve trooped,
Goodness, you must be pooped . . .

It rattles along, I think you’ll agree, and – in a very real sense – attempts to explore the historical perspective of your reign when set alongside the achievements of other queens. You may remember that the current poet laureate, Andrew Motion, did something at the time about your constancy in a changing world. His work rattled along too, and I’m prepared to concede that it probably had hidden depths.

If you have a spare moment, Your Majesty, would you drop me a line about what you might expect poem-wise? As far as I can make out, previous laureates have been on stand-by to perform for Your Majesty at births, marriages, coronations and bar mitzvahs. Perhaps not bar mitzvahs. Hardly a taxing workload, is it?

I’d hope to offer more in the way of practical service. For example, who does your Christmas cards? Somebody in the public eye like you, ma’am, must have hundreds of cards to sign and, like the rest of us, absolutely no idea what to put in them. That’s where I could help:

Season’s Greetings, Gordon Brown,
Thanks to you I’ve hocked the crown,
You’re the worst PM one’s ever seen,
Happy Christmas, from the Queen.

Or perhaps:

Dear Lord Mandelson of Foy,
One hears you’ve been a naughty boy.
This Christmas time remember not
To party on a tycoon’s yacht.

Despite all the extra work, I won’t require much in the way of pay. Famously, the poet laureate gets a barrel of sherry each year. To be honest, I’m not much of a sherry drinker. Do I need to supply my own opium? Many poets just can’t string a couplet together without opium, but I find it gives me constipation. So if you really want to say “thank you” for a poem – though Motion says you never do – then a box of Milk Tray would be just as welcome.

Would it help if I were to develop tuberculosis? I understand that was very popular with poets at one time, and I’ve been feeling a bit chesty lately. It’s probably just a cough left over from my winter cold, but you never know.

Now I’ve set out my qualifications, let’s examine the competition. Simon Armitage is perhaps the most serious contender. He was the UK’s official millennium poet, so he’s used to writing for national occasions. Wendy Cope has been tipped, and so have Carol Ann Duffy and Benjamin Zephaniah. You might also take a look at Murray Lachlan Young, who is a rather amusing performance poet. I once saw him perform at Land’s End, wearing nothing but a pith helmet. Something to keep in mind for the winter evenings at Sandringham, perhaps.

Anyway, if none of those quite fits the bill, here is my audition piece, Lines on the 60th Birthday of the Prince of Wales:

My eldest, he’s the Prince of Wales.
We hoped he’d get a job in sales
And not do stuff for charity.
Still, now and then he works for me,
Creating peers and dubbing knights
And other such arcane delights.
He isn’t in it for the pay
(He moonlights as the Duke of Rothesay),
But if he really knuckles down,
Perhaps one day he’ll wear the crown.
When younger he did not impress,
His bedroom was a ghastly mess,
For One it was an awful chore
To pick his socks up off the floor.
At 60, though, he’s quite a gent –
I’ll let him open parliament.

If you’re still reading, ma’am, is it too late to change my mind about the opium?

Jeremy Clarkson is away

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