Blond highlights from that other queen's speech ...

My lads, dykes, denizens of Heaven and those who still believe Gordon Brown is the title of a Stranglers song... Welcome to this rump Parliament and hung House. Mystic Meg being fully booked, I stand here, nipples to the wind, dressed to the left, peering adorably over my horn rims, humbly charged with telling the people, the people who need people, the luckiest people in the world, what the future holds for Gay Britain.

First, Europe. We shall join the Socialising Chapter. Expect long, all- expenses-paid weekends in Amsterdam, Athens, Madrid. We are committed to breaking down the barriers that separate us from our fellow men, the dark Mediterranean types especially; the ones with deltoids to die for who always seem to be called Manuel. Our ambassadors abroad are already flashing the Ferrero Rocher, so please help by learning a new language. Ask yourself: "Isn't it time I wrapped my mouth wrapped around a little foreign tongue?"

Law and order... Well, which twisted sister thought this up! It was you, Stephen Twigg, wasn't it! I see you. Are you waving or drying your nail varnish? Too cute...

Girlfriends, there really will be a fashion police. Six feet and heaven alone knows how many inches, the FP will prowl the land in Tommy Hilfiger- designed uniforms ready to finger the frayed shirt-collars of anyone with a middle parting, home perm or even thinking of buying catalogue clothes. The FP will practise zero tolerance and safe sex, bursting into clubs - "We're on the guest list" - at all hours to arrest Muscle Marys who refuse to cover their tired old Disco Tits. Be warned: anyone who waltzes into work wearing any item retrieved from the laundry hamper will be hunted down like the animal they are.

Turning to the media. The gay press will be regulated. OffFul will ensure that when Gay Times compiles an A-Z list of homosexual culture it doesn't graciously grant itself the longest entry, and that some of the profits made by Boyz are channelled into buying a dictionary and a bottle of Hot Treatment Wax for the editor's badly bleached hair (there's platinum, dearie, and then there's plain Domestos). OffFul will also make sure the gay press is finally pouf red ... proof read.

As promised, homophobia will be taxed. The more homophobic, the higher the percentage of earnings taken. For instance, "filthy queer" is definitely a 404L banding. At least a third of the salary gone like that. And don't even whisper "Aids carrier". That's the luxury tax bracket; a luxury we intend few will be able to afford.

What the hell. The cash is going to the NHS. We confidently expect Bernard Manning, Richard Littlejohn (crazy name, crazy guy) and Richard Ingrams to pay for every protease inhibitor regime in Britain over the next five years from their own pockets.

Plus - wait for it, wait for it - VAT on KY is slashed to 5 per cent.

Health. We shall browbeat the nation toward boxed salads, decaffeinated diet drinks, sushi and chargrilled vegetables, with a little wholemeal pasta for those complex carbohydrates.

Lesbians and gay men who continue to insist they want to join the armed forces - who next? the Amish? - will be offered emergency aversion therapy, which will consist of repeated viewings of The Guns of Navarone and cruel mock-up photos of themselves looking deeply unattractive in itchy olive drab.

Boyzone will be available on prescription, as will earplugs, because children should be seen, not heard.

Before I forget, that rumour about same-day penis enlargement? It's exactly that. A rumour. I know. I started it.

On to gay political reform. Anyone old enough to explain what a zap was will be automatically replaced by someone who knows what a zit is, and rushed away to The Terry Sanderson Retirement Home For Bitter Old Queens Whose Time Has Passed But Still Hang On Grimly, situated in the quiet, picturesque village of Hazell Dean. Volunteer workers such as Quentin Crisp will visit, to hold hands with the nearly departed, nod a lot and murmur, "Ooh, you chained yourself to Stanley Baldwin did you? And Oscar Wilde liked to do what? Really? The dirty pig. No, it's not time for your poppers yet..."

Now the bad news. The compulsory lesbianism law has had to be abandoned, some spoilsport having pointed out that all women actually want to get pregnant. Ditto the suggestion that "Ooh, Body Form, B-ooooo-dy F-oooorm For You" be the new National Anthem. Copyright problems. However, plans to turn Westminster into a combination roller disco and Aids drop-in centre are proceeding, as are negotiations for the Beverley Sisters to take over at Heritage. We're currently stalled on the clause demanding a 24-hour beautician and plasterer, but Babs says she can talk the other two round.

We shall also be severing diplomatic relations with Zaire's President Mobutu, because, frankly, leopard skin doesn't go with everything. We are likewise tinkering with declaring war on the US if Gwyneth Paltrow refuses to share Brad Pitt under the terms of the North Atlantic Free Trade Agreement, although that decision is on hold until Ann Widdecombe, Margaret Beckett, Teresa Gorman, Betty Boothroyd and Dot Cotton have been announced as the new Spice Girls. We would have asked Edwina too, but then we heard daughter Debbie's cover of "You Can Do Magic", and Debbie, no, I'm afraid you can't.

I think that's everything... Except for this scrawled PS about equality under the law, adoption rights, legal recognition of same-sex unions, drone, drone, drone. God, what's wrong with these whingeing homosexuals? Isn't it enough that we live in a land where embroidery is the new rock 'n' roll?n