My Mum would kill me for saying this, but here goes.
The Royal Family is a waste of space. Oxygen thieves the lot of ‘em. An anachronistic tribe that is well past its use-by date.
They should have been voted off the island a long time ago.
I know, I know, I’m just another in the endless chain of people who pay out on the poor sods, but I ask you, is there really any place for them in today’s society?
What brought me to this, my latest rant, is the news that poor old Katie had to spend time in hospital due to morning sickness. The story made headlines across the globe, featuring ahead of such world events as wars, natural disasters, One Direction’s latest single and Justin Bieber’s haircut.
Bloody hell, any other crook mother-to-be would just whack a handful of Norwegian pickled herrings between two slices of raw meat, sit in front of the telly with a glass of vinegar-flavoured milk and watch repeats of Gilligan’s Island. That’d take your mind off feeling queasy, or at the very least, it would give you a good reason to feel sick.
But not Katie. Poor thing.
She had to take to her bed. For four fucking days!
Imagine the scene if you will. There she is, lying in a Queen-sized bed (presumptuous considering she’s only a Duchess) on a mattress stuffed with the finest down which has been lovingly plucked from the bellies of day-old North American snow geese by sixteen year-old virgin Eskimo girls. Her head rests gently on a pillowcase made from premium Japanese silk spun from the cocoons of genetically-engineered silkworms raised solely on imported Paraguayan mulberry leaves.
Fourteen maids-in-waiting occupy the room next door. Their only task is to keep her bedpan at a constant twenty-four degrees Celsius, a mission they accomplish by taking turns to sit on it.
The room will be filled to capacity with brilliantly-coloured flowers, carefully grown by the We’re Totally Organic Eh What, Pip, Pip, Tally Ho Flower Company. This exclusive British company uses only the finest of Nova Scotian potting mixes carefully blended with Royal horse poo by white-coated PhD students named Alistair.
Kate will be fed only the finest of gourmet cuisine, lovingly prepared by her very own Michelin Star chef and transported to the hospital under Police escort in a specially modified Bentley Mulsanne, complete with a gold-plated bain-marie heated entirely by volcanic mineral water from Rotorua.
And when poor little Katie wants to sleep she’ll drift away to the pleasant sounds of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra playing Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik (Serenade No. 13 for strings in G major). No, not the CD, the real bloody orchestra; they’re Royal, remember, so they’ve got to do what she says…
Yes indeed, my Mum would be really pissed off at me if she read this, but I can’t for one second imagine her spending time in a hospital bed with morning sickness. No, in her day as a young Yorkshire Mother she held down a full-time job in a factory, yet still had the time and energy to run the household, turn out five kids and complain about everything that was wrong with the world. That’s what Yorkshire people did in those days, complain, just ask Monty Python – they did a famous sketch about it.
Oh, and by the way, my Father was never allowed to be sick. He worked two jobs just to make ends meet.
Sure, my parents could have had fewer kids but what fun would that have been? Lets face it; there wasn’t a lot to do in foggy old Hull back in the fifties.
I’m a bit annoyed though, because they only shagged each other.
It would appear there’s a lot to be said for shagging your cousin.