Two brainteasers for you – both of which were raised over dinner at my house last night. Question one: would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses, or one horse-sized duck? Question two: how much would you pay for a ticket to the royal wedding? We discussed the first question at greater length and with far greater passion, which I feel, is quite telling. Nevertheless, newspapers being generally more concerned with topical than eternal questions, I’m going to run with question two.
How much would you pay? Obviously it depends on how rich you are, and what you feel about the royal family – as well as what other plans you may have for the weekend. As it happens, I’m due to attend an eco-wedding – with compost lavatories – in a field in Devon, which I am very much looking forward to. On the other hand, fields in Devon can be bloody cold. And I’m willing to bet that whatever arrangements they’ve got set up in Windsor this weekend, the Californian faction will have insisted on decent lavs, heating and food.
I don’t want to go the wedding. I would probably pay £50 not to go
Then again, think of the queuing. And the security check points, and the “no entry” signs, and the “please arrive early” demands and the endless waiting, while even more important people than you, in even sillier hats, are ushered into even more exclusive sanctums.
There would be that one delirious moment of superiority, when you’re cruising past the flag-waving proles on Windsor’s high street, ticket aloft. It might make up for some of the waiting. But would it be enough? Would it ever salve the pain of feeling less important than Princess Eugenie?
For all the cant about equality, diversity and inclusiveness, there is an uncomfortably submissive streak to the British public – or, at least, to British royal supporters. With their street parties and aimless flagwaving, they seem to rejoice in their peasantly status, and I wish they wouldn’t. It makes them look pathetic. And it feeds the royal family’s conceit.
Is it time we chopped off their heads? Well, of course it is. Sort of. Apart from for the usual reasons, it could be the thing that brings piece to our isle at last: the 48-per- centers’ perfect revenge for Brexit. Assuming (no doubt, annoyingly) that all Brexiteers love the Queen, it would mean that everyone in the country would be unhappy, and life would be fair again.
On the other hand, the bloodshed can wait. There are several questions I would like answered before the killing begins. Will 36-year-old divorcée Meghan Markle wear virginal white on the big day? Will Prince Harry shave his beard? Will the Duke of Edinburgh survive?
There would be one delirious moment of superiority, but would it ever salve the pain of feeling less important than Princess Eugenie?
And then in the aftermath – what next? Will Prince Harry and his showgirl defy expectations and live happily, cutting ribbons together ever after at gender-neutral play centres? Or will the beautiful Meghan tire of our subtle British mix of obsequiousness and spite, and elope, mini-princelings in tow with Derek the electrician? We don’t know.
The royal soap opera may have lost some of its glister since the heady days of Fergie and her toe-sucker, or Princess Di and her crowded marriage – but it’s still a pretty damn good show. I suggest we hold our horses. Keep our ducks in a row. Let’s wait and see how this new series plays out, and if it gets boring (or it all turns out to be a dream) we can chop off their heads off very soon after that.
I don’t want to go the wedding. I would probably pay £50 not to go. But I’ll be watching the highlights from a cold field in Devon. Good luck to them, and all that. Thanks for the show. Let’s hope the story gets a bit spicier soon, for everyone’s sake, because the 48-per-centers are growing restless…
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