It all began that morning at Buckingham Palace, when King Charles received an urgent memo from the Royal Beastmaster: “Your Majesty, the baby hippopotamus has arrived from the Commonwealth as a coronation gift. Tradition demands the monarch mount the creature for the ceremonial blessing.”
Charles, ever dutiful, assumed this was one of those ancient protocols no one had bothered to update since the days of Henry VIII. “Very well,” he sighed, adjusting his crown (which was already slightly crooked from a minor tussle with a corgi earlier). “One doesn’t like to break with tradition.”
The zookeeper, trembling with excitement, led him to the royal enclosure where Sir Splashalot—a deceptively cute, round, and utterly unstoppable baby hippo—was wallowing in a mud bath. A small velvet mounting block had been provided, complete with the royal cipher embroidered on it.
With the dignity befitting a sovereign, Charles ascended the block, sceptre in one hand, robe carefully arranged. The plan was simple: sit sidesaddle for thirty seconds, wave regally, dismount. A photographer stood ready.
But Sir Splashalot had other ideas.
The moment Charles’s royal posterior made contact with the hippo’s broad back, the creature mistook the weight for the signal to launch into his daily sprint for snacks. With a joyous bellow that sounded suspiciously like “WHEEE!”, Sir Splashalot exploded forward.
Charles’s polite “I say—” turned into a full-throated shout of alarm as the mounting block toppled, the photographer dove for cover, and the King found himself clinging to a galloping hippo in full coronation regalia, crown now at a 45-degree angle, sceptre flailing like a jousting lance.
And that, dear reader, is exactly how His Majesty ended up charging through the royal grounds atop a baby hippopotamus—because no one dared tell the King that the “ceremonial mounting” tradition was actually invented five minutes earlier by an overenthusiastic intern.
The Crazymad Writer Writes Again 