The Royal Beano
It appears that a couple of spoiled rich kids are getting married in London tomorrow. This is a matter of such global import that The Bangkok Post has been carrying page-long articles about the couple’s impending nuptials for the last week, and tomorrow we can look forward to four-page, full colour wraparound (whatever one of this is). I can barely contain my excitement.
The cost for the security (just security) for this beanfeast is apparently not unadjacent to £20,000,000. Such security appears to be necessary because Muslims Against Crusades (a British Islamist organisation) has declared that the wedding is a “legitimate terror target”. I’m not sure they understand the meaning of the word “legitimate” – particularly in the context of a terrorist attack. Be that as it may, their spokesman, Abu Abbas, has also recommended that all Moslems stay away from central London on the day, partly to avoid “the drinking, drug taking and sexual promiscuity” – but mostly to avoid being blown to smithereens by their co-religionists.
Of course, if the Pontiff, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Chief Rabbi, whoever heads the Humanists, Yoda and the Supreme Dalek issued similar warnings to their followers to stay away the streets would be clear and there’d be no need to spend such a vast sum of public money on our boys in blue.
One might feel sorry for Middleton, if she weren’t such a cheap, shallow social climber. She’s now destined to a life of utter tedium, where her major decision each day will be whether to shag her riding instructor or regurgitate her lunch.
The prospect of marrying that prematurely balding, smirking git with braying laugh and delinquent chin is enough to make anyone vomit. But then, the prospect of fabulous wealth and privilege and endless paparazzi photographs in Hello magazine is enough to turn the head of the shallowest grasping bimbo.
On the positive side, the marriage is hardly likely to last long. The royals in recent years have had trouble keeping to the “till death us do part” part of the marriage vows. I wonder how it feels to be a starter queen?
Doubtless the Palace PR machine will attempt to turn Middleton into some sort of icon. They did a stunningly good job with Diana. A quick trip to Bosnia and a few photoshoots over the hospital beds of people with AIDS turned her into a living saint, oft favourably compared to Mother Theresa. (Actually, you could probably compare Jack the Ripper favourably to the bigoted Albanian raisin-look-alike who was far more interested in raising funds for wimples and rosaries than in providing proper medical care for those unfortunate enough to come into her charge. But I digress.)
The obscene public expense of the rich twits getting hitched is not without purpose: it reminds us how they are better than the rest of us. They have their position because it’s the will of God (or possibly of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I’m not sure), and they need to take every possible opportunity to rub our noses in the fact. Insecure muchly. The fact that this spectacle is about as appetising as that of Caligula celebrating his conjugals with Incitatus appears to be lost on the Windsors.
Surely it’s long overdue for this inbred family of cretins and hypocrites to go. Haven’t they lived off the backs of decent, working people for far too long, their sole skills being in hand waving, hoarding and profligately spending the wealth of the British people? Time to start sharpening the guillotines once more.