I flicked on the BBC News this morning and there was a load of crap on about the Royal Wedding. Specifically it was a collection of twats discussing clips of Royal Weddings of yesteryear. They focussed especially on Chuckles and Di. And how during the depths of economic despair back in ’81 it was exactly what the country needed and they with straight faces and the mere glisten to the eye reflected on how it was a “fairy tale”. I’d say more like a bloody nightmare seeing as Chuckles shagged Camilla the night before… Anyway it must have been cold-comfort to the 3 million unemployed but so what? They could take one day out of their cares and be uplifted (I paraphrase but that was the gist) and watch it on the telly (as long as the re-po man hadn’t been around – yet).
Marrying the man you love might be considered enough of a first for any woman. But on Friday at 11am, when Catherine Middleton steps into Westminster Abbey to exchange vows with Prince William, this commoner will become a true royal pioneer.
Kate will be the first royal bride to have a university degree, the first to have lived with her husband before marriage, the first to have a mother who used to be an air hostess, the first to be raised in a house that has a street number instead of a fancy name and a moat with swans. Whatever snobs may say about the suitability of the match between the middle-class Miss Middleton and the monarchy, there can be no doubt of one glorious fact: some day, she will be the first Queen of England to have fallen over at a roller disco in a pair of yellow hotpants.
Well at least she wasn’t wearing a thong and mini-skirt otherwise Compton and Woodlouse would be issueing a limited edition collectable, The Minge of Kings. Anyway, I know full-well Catherine of Braganza used to roller-blade in the nip down the long-gallery of Hampton Court Palace.
It is Kate’s only serious slip-up so far [Boom Boom!]. Not bad for a girl who has had to endure the longest job interview in history. Kate was 19 when, in 2001, she met William during their first term at St Andrews University. They became friends – and, eight months later, more than that. Fast forward eight years and Kate was two months away from her 29th birthday when their engagement was announced.
I dunno about the Royals but clearly Allison Pearson who penned this epically patronising bilge doesn’t live in anything like the real world. Patronising to everyone but especially to Miss Middleton. Does anything strike you as unusual about that relationship arc? Obviously it seems so to Ms Pearson and much the rest of the meedja hence the ridiculous, Mills and Baboonish “The Princess who Waited” narrative. And that “two months shy of being 29 (nearly 30!)” schtick is vomitus maximus in it’s sexism. Tell ya what! They should have just arranged a marriage to a virgin of good breeding in the manner of the Plantagenets because that worked brilliantly last generation.
Eight long years in which the quiet, sporty brunette, famous at school for her record-breaking high jump and tenacious character, earned the humiliating nickname of Waity Katie. Why didn’t the art history graduate use her brain and find herself a proper job, demanded the press. Kate’s failure to get a ring on her finger became a national joke.
“Humiliating nickname”? C’mon Ms Pearson you can’t pull that on off after the patronising drivel you have been spouting here – that’s down to you and your cronies. And “national joke”. Oh for fuck’s sake!
But, as a friend in the couple’s circle points out, to get the promotion to fiancée, Kate couldn’t risk accepting any job that made her look like she was cashing in on her boyfriend’s name: she was stuck between a hard place and a rock. And not just any rock; it was the £250,000 sapphire and diamond ring that had belonged to William’s adored late mother.
“Promotion”? Jesus wept! And you know it would have been totally unheard of for a member of the Royal Family or a hanger-on to abuse the name to get ahead. I mean William’s uncles in particular would never dream of such a thing. As to jobs for posh art history graduates it is all who they know anyway. So what! ’tis the way of things. Student lads, you want to marry into money, hang around the art history department. Packed with rich quim. Learn a few phrases first. Here’s one for free, “Carravaggio – simply magnificent in his use of chiaroscuro!”. That will get you at least tops and fingers. Or your money back!
Anyway. I seem to have drifted off topic and this article just goes on and on. If you want to read the rest it’s here.
I am deeply sceptical about an elected head of state (I can hear Mandy’s coffin lid creaking already) but I am piggy rotten sick of this meaningless fawning adulation from almost all the media wanking themselves into a frenzy over this sort of crap. And moreover I am severely fecked-off with the whole commoner motif.
Time to be citizens, take-up knitting and purchase a tumbril!
Vive la révolution!