Pomp and ceremony. Bunting, banners, and barking-mad old ladies with silly hats. An entire nation coming to a complete halt for the sake of a wee bairn, born of royal blood.
The royals that the same nation rebelled against more than 200 years ago!
What an odd juxtaposition: millions of Americans, many of whom are descendants of Revolutionary soldiers who sacrificed their lives to rid this nation of the chains of monarchy, will sit glued to a TV screen to watch and wait for the emergence of the latest progeny.
But, good for you. Without you the monarchy would probably be exiled to Glasgow where they would rot in the memory of their favorite inbreeding moments.
I bet you’ll drink tea, too (even though Brits drink an equal amount of coffee) and have cucumber sandwiches and cakes in the afternoon (which in Britain would be laughable hogwash) to celebrate. I even bet those excitable Tea Partiers, ranting about government control and European ideals and dictatorship will be there too, ready to cheer for the newbie; a person who closely represents the person they originally rebelled against.
Don’t let semantics stop you, though.
As you watch and succumb to the emotion of the occasion in your La-Z-boy, think about your next vacation. Don’t go to Disney (the princesses aren’t real anyway); don’t go to Queens (just don’t go to Queens); don’t go to the Royal Theatre in Wheaton, MD (it smells of geriatric naughty bits). No, think of England the way Roger Miller wanted you to: “Westminster Abbey, the Tower Big Ben and the rosy-red cheeks of the little children”. Go to England. Oh.
And please, don’t be put-off by anything you hear about this upright and impeccable family as you wind your way through the internet looking at whimsical castles and cottages and quaint towns in the rural green.
It’s true that the Queen and Prince Philip, who you all love dearly, receive around $50m each year from their loyal subjects. And, because she doesn’t have to pay for anything much at all, except Phil’s Viagra (it has been said), she has about $49m to spend on onesies/babygros for le royal baby. But with that money she’s incredibly frugal; she buys knitting needles and a bit of wool now again, some Turkish Delight and polish for her father’s collection of Nazi memorabilia.
If you hear rumors that number-one son, Charles, was forced to marry Diana Spencer, for whom he had less love than he did for an aspidistra, take it with a grain of salt. And even if Diana, so young and springy, decided to cheat on her husband with little regard for her children’s welfare, and with several different men, what of it? Haven’t we all skeletons in the closet?
If, by chance, you overhear gossip about son number two, Andrew, don’t take it to heart. So what if he married a person who, some have said, spent more quality time in rugby changing-rooms than athlete’s foot. They may say she’s not only built like an Olympian but that she has wrestled her way (that’s not a metaphor) to the top of the quasi-Royal entourage by sucking up to anyone worth sucking up to (that’s not a metaphor, either). Rid yourself of this garbage. Go to England and see this child!
Son number three, Edward? They’ll moan that he’s gay. So what, so is Rupert Everett, and you loved him in My Best Friend’s Wedding.
Now, some people go deeper into the past and dredge that old story about her sister, Margaret. They’ll whisper to you over a scone with clotted cholesterol that she was forbidden by royal decree to be with the man she loved, Captain Peter Townshend, and so instead she bored herself to drink and then drank herself to death. Lies, damn lies, and sadistics!
Did you ever chastise their behavior, fellow Americans? You did not! (Aside from demonizing Charles, whose only crime was immense ugliness, ears like pizza pies, and a complete lack of interest in bringing the archaic tradition of the Royal Family into the new millennium.)
And why should they have come into the new millennium?
Would you be watching with your little flags and your fake crowns if this baby was being born to a chimney sweep and a flying nanny? Of course you wouldn’t. You love all the quaintness and old-worldiness of these ancients of bling. So, long may it last.
It would be prudent to mention that as you begin your Old World trip to dote on the big-eared boy, don’t let them put the Queen’s old hubby down. They’ll say Philip has been having his wicked way with every young filly that has passed through Fucking’em Palace and several of the Corgis since his eyesight deteriorated. Move on from this sordid excuse for truth!
How does this upstanding enigma still even exist in modern Western Civilization, some will ask you?
You should answer strongly and without reservation that it is immaterial: the Queen and her handsome offspring, you can tell them, have absolutely no power whatsoever. She’s just an ugly face. Knocks on a door with a black rod she grabs once a year to open Parliament; the members of which would not be able to work out how to turn the handle without her. If she didn’t have to do that, she’d just sit at home and crochet her lips.
They may throw the famous Christmas speech at you as a sign that she has the ability to reach the people with subliminal messages about … pigeons, or something. You should look them in the eye and put them straight: the speech has been proven much more entertaining when given by a drunk monkey, who happens to be a sock puppet. So there.
What does it matter that she doesn’t need a passport, a license, or car registration to get her old jalopy on the A40M and visit her grandson? She is the heart of the nation, without whom, the people who make those stupid busby’s for the guards would be out of work (both of them).
If you love them, come and see this kid. For you are their future, the foundation of their existence, and the key to their continuation as the people who live at the palace. You are the witnesses in their defense. You are their lifeline. Their hope.
And now, you control them.
What a turn-around that is, People of the Republic.