Last weekend, which was hotter than in Istanbul, I was sitting in the garden of a friend, eating incinerated meat of three different farm yard animals (though not at the same time) and sipping (surprisingly drinkable) Australian shiraz. As an aside, the Australians might be, as another friend of mine puts it, thick as shit in a bottle, but they know how to make wines. (This guy is weak, passive, selfish, mean-spirited, idle-minded, sex-starved and just this side of venal, but, occasionally, probably randomly, makes an observation that comes close to having a point—I am of course referring to his opinion about the Australian wines. I don’t know many Australians; and while those I have come across were foul-mouthed drunks, as probably were their fathers, and their grandfathers, stretching all the way back to the first convict ship, I am not one to jump to hasty judgments.) I am coming round to the idea that the New World wines are not all horse-pee; some of them can not only be consumed without gagging, they can also be mildly enjoyable.
But this post is not about the merits and de-merits of New World Wines.
So there I was, in the back-garden of my friends. I should clarify what I mean by ‘friends’. The husband is my friend; in a manner of speaking. Years ago we used to work together. I can’t really put a finger on why we have remained in contact. I guess we live in the same city, which helps. But I can’t remember a single occasion when I found a reason to invite him to my place. He, on the other hand, phones me from time to time and invites me to go out with him and another friend to watch Arsenal play. (I must take the blame for this. I had told him, for reasons I won’t go into now, when we used to work together, that I supported Arsenal. It turned out that he too was an Arsenal supporter. And although, over the years, it must have been clear as daylight to him that I have little knowledge and less interest in Football, he has decided to persist with the illusion that I am a football aficionado and an Arsenal supporter, even though I have repeatedly failed to name Arsenal players who routinely make the first eleven for the club.) In the summers (or unseasonably hot spring) I am invited for barbecues. I always manage to avoid going to the dreadful football matches. Being cooped up in some grotty pub, surrounded by low-IQ, tattooed men speaking a language that broadly resembles English and drinking gaseous lagers is not my idea of a good night out. However I always avail myself of the barbecue-invitations on the principle that it is ungentlemanly to reject an invitation when it involves free food and the opportunity to look at the cantaloupe breasts of the host’s wife. And, because I am English, there is no obligation on me to bring anything with me. It is, I believe, called a win-win situation.
However this post is not about barbecues (or breasts).
So there I was, sitting in the back-garden of my friends. The garden was long and layered, and we were in the middle portion of the garden. My ‘friend’ was wittering about his herb garden (over-run, insofar as I could see, by basil which had killed all the other herbs) and the gooseberry bush which he was worried would run wild. I was sitting in my chair alternatingly marvelling that anyone could speak non-stop for ten minutes on f**king herbs and debating (in my mind) whether I would be able get a glimpse of his wife’s knickers (who was sitting opposite me wearing a bikini top and diaphanous white skirt which ended a few inches below her crotch) if I bent down on some pretext; then wondering (only briefly) whether I was a pervert to be lusting after my friend’s wife; and concluding that it was entirely normal to fancy your friends’ spouses if they came as lusciously packaged as this one, and, in any case, this friend was not really a friend—he was just a bore whom I tolerated when I had barbecue with him once or twice a year, and who had an ogleworthy wife. As I saw it, I was bringing, albeit only briefly, wit and intelligence to his life, and I must get something in return.
However, this post is not about the moral dilemma faced by men who have friends who have wives who are hot.
So there I was sitting in the back-garden of my friend when his wife (perhaps in an attempt to shift my gaze away from her breasts) said to me, ‘so what are you doing this Friday?’ Not immediately knowing where this was headed (surely I was not being invited for another barbecue, in which case there was no reason for me to visit them), I said I was probably a bit busy.
‘It’s a bank holiday,’ the friend’s wife said.
‘You know, for me,’ I said, ‘every day is a holiday these days. Why a bank holiday?’
‘It’s the royal wedding.’
‘I see,’ I said, not seeing at all, ‘and?’
‘Aren’t you going to watch it?’
‘Let me see,’ I said, ‘this Friday, is it, the wedding? Now then, what am I doing this Friday? Looking through my diary’—miming to take out a diary and turn its pages—‘the whole day is totally free. I am not doing anything. So no. I won’t be watching the royal wedding.’
This was obviously not the right thing to say. After an awkward silence, the friend said, ‘Jenny loves the royals.’
‘Who is getting married again?’ I asked, hoping that this would annoy her further.
‘Surely you know that,’ Jenny said. ‘You are just being cantankerous.’
‘Of course I know,’ I said. ‘It is Charles’s son, what’s his name, who is getting married to that girl, what’s her name.’
My friend’s wife fizzed like a lightbulb about to blow; opened her mouth as if she was about to say something cutting; then seemed to change her mind; instead she bent forward—the skirt receded further (but not so far that I could check out her knickers)—and got up. ‘Anyone for tea?’ she said in a voice she obviously hoped was frosty. ‘I’m putting the kettle on.’ With that she walked towards the house, her buttocks bouncing in disapproval.
‘Oooh,’ my friend said with a mock-shudder. ‘You have upset Jenny.’ ‘Well, I am sorry,’ I lied. ‘That was not my intention. But it is not as if she is a personal friend of the Windsors; or a bridesmaid.’
I am sure I am not the only one in these isles who couldn’t give a toss about what the Windsors get up to. They are just a bunch of useless, filthy rich, selfish, vain nicklefuckers who haven’t done an honest day’s work in their lives.
The Bolsheviks had the right idea about what to do with these inbreds. Or (having recently finished Hilary mantel’s superb A Place of Greater Safety) the French. I am not saying that these donkeys should be shot or guillotined—although if anyone deserves to be, at the very least, kept in permanent solitary confinement, it is the groom’s father—but I wouldn’t be sorry to see the whole rotten bunch of them dumped under a rotting mound of cabbages (why cabbages? Have you smelled a rotten cabbage?).
At my friend’s barbecue, his wife (after she returned with tea) felt it was her duty to inform me—which she did with relish, as if it was some sort of personal victory for her—that Messrs. Blair and Brown were not invited for the wedding.
While I don’t honestly think that Brown would care whether he is invited or not, I am very pleased to learn that BLiar has been snubbed; for no reason other than the certainty that he will suffer deeply that he has not been invited, care as he does for meaningless ceremonies and positions and titles. I remember reading somewhere that BLiar’s wife, the loathsome Cherie, would refuse to curtsey to the queen whenever they met. I don’t know whether this is true or not, but if it is true, then it is about the only thing the obnoxious woman has done during the years when she was Mrs. Prime Minister that I approve of. This would be enough of a reason to make the wicked witch (Queen) to hate the BLiars, but I think the reason BLiar is snubbed is to do with Diana’s death.
Cast your mind back to 1997, the year Diana died. Did I shed any tears when she died? Of course not. She was a deeply flawed, manipulative and utterly talentless woman whose only means of making men feel for her were slashing her wrists or opening her legs—a car crash waiting to happen. And that’s what happened, figuratively and literally, in 1997, when she was eloping paparazzi in the company of her most recent lover. One always feels sorry for the children when one or both parents die, although given the kind of erratic, promiscuous life the woman had led until then, she couldn’t have been a good role model for her children. Indeed you deserve all the commiseration if you are the progeny of a man whose IQ might just touch average and whose head resembles from behind a cab with doors open, and a woman whose character defects were so many and so myriad that one wondered whether she was not the result of the genetic experiments of Dr. Mengele.
Anyway, let’s get back to 1997. Diana, having made numerous unsuccessful attempts at dying because she was sooo fed up with life, finally died when she was probably not intending to.
BLiar had been a prime minister for a few months. And the piece of shit decided to treat this as a godsend to hog prime media time. He was all over and everywhere, like herpes. Not a single news bulletin on any of the channels for the next however many days the hysteria lasted went by without BLiar mouthing inane banalities and trying to look more grief-stricken than those (not many I should imagine) who were genuinely devastated by Diana’s death.
It was common knowledge that the old witch and the jughead hated Diana, and were probably not at all sorry when she removed herself, albeit unintentionally, from the gene-pool. (Mohamed Al Fayed, the Egyptian tycoon and father of Dodi who was filling the vacuum in Diana’s life with intra-vaginal therapy at the time of her death, is clinging on to the notion, which obviously appeals to him, that Diana was bumped off by the Windsors as she was becoming a pain in the butt. However, since Al Fayed is a few donor kebabs short of an Egyptian lunch, we can safely ignore his conspiracy theories.)
Anyway, the dyspeptic old witch must have been aggravated when the Prime Minister joined in with the nation’s hysteria and actively encouraged it. Watching BLiar, giving interviews, hands clasped in front of his crotch, and speaking lies about a woman he probably didn’t care about was a truly revolting spectacle. He not just put the ham but also gammon and sausages in his performance. That’s what I found so galling about BLiar at that time: he was totally, unashamedly, unabashedly, wilfully, and enthusiastically dishonest. This was the first indication that BLiar who would be Britain’s Prime Minister for the next ten years was the sort of man who, if he told you he saw the sun rising in the east, would make you check the west.
So, just in case I have not made it clear, here is a recap. (1) I hold the royal family in contempt. They are a bunch of retards. And not very amusing retards at that. Charles, for example, is more irritating than sand in your urethra, more painful than piles, and more infuriating than Kevin Pierterson (besides being as stupid as George W Bush). (2) I will not be watching the royal wedding. (3) Even though I don’t care for the royals or for the wedding of the balding heir to the throne, I am still inordinately pleased that BLiar is snubbed. Finally, (4) there is a man in the city I live in who thinks I am his friend, and (5) he is a bore but his wife has sensational boobs, so I meet them off and on.
So the BLiars are not invited. Who is invited? Apparently Victoria Beckham is invited. What’s the point of inviting Victoria Beckham? Unless you want to see the longest projectile vomitus after she has been force-fed a cake. Cherie Blair at least would have done justice to the poncy food. Indeed with a mouth like hers she would probably have eaten the table leg.
I read recently that the expenditure of this wedding is $34 million. That takes the biscuit. We are supposed to be in the middle of the worst recession since the Black Death and the monarch is blowing $ 34 million on the wedding of her grandson whose only plus point is that he is not as much of a loser as his younger brother, Harry the tw*t. It just goes to show how much removed the royals are from the common man. Such an obscene demonstration of wealth, showing complete disregard to the plight of common people, I believe, results from a combination of shamelessness and arrogance, the belief that they have the God-given right to do as they please.
The researchers have estimated that the wedding will generate thousands of tons of CO2 equivalents. That great! Not content with blowing up millions of pounds they haven’t earned, these morons are bent upon f**king up the environment. (By the way who in the name of Allah commissioned this research? How many researchers worked on this ‘project’? How many thousands were given in grants?)
One Gary Hertley from Energy Saving Trust, who I think is a very sad man, has suggested that the best way for the couple to travel from Westminster Abbey to Buckingham Palace is horse and cart which will emit no emission (except, I suppose, intestinal gases emitted by the animals) instead of the Rolls-Royce. What next? Carbon-neutral underwear for the bride? Does Gary Hartley really think that these people who are wasting millions on the wedding that is going to produce hundreds of tons of waste give a flying f**k about the carbon emission? (But don’t worry. Prince of Wales is on the case. He has seen to it that the canapés are sourced locally, the flowers are local and—this his final revenge on the guests—some of the wine English.
Having seen the picture of the couple I am obliged to conclude that the bride is a dish, and the only reason she has agreed to marry this balding man with the jawline of a horse is that he is filthy rich and is the heir to the throne (in a country which has time for such anachronistic nonsense and which, in a smug manner that only we Brits can manage, it does not expect other nations to ‘get’ its eccentricities). Nothing wrong in this per se. Kate Middleton is not the first and won’t be the last woman to marry for money and position. These things, as her father-in-law-to-be (who managed to get into Cambridge despite dreadful A levels) and her (equally useless) uncle-in-law-to-be (who manages to be Britain’s cultural ambassador (now that is a joke) without having the slightest qualification for the job) know only too well, go a long way.
I am very much tempted to say that we should do away with the monarchy. But what would we replace them with? If we replace them with the presidency system (where the president, just like the queen, is expected to be a figurehead) we would just have more dishonest politicians queuing up for the job. Worse, we shall one day have President Bliar. I couldn’t cope with that. I’d rather have the old witch (a corpse would look more lively than her) and, when she does the decent thing and dies, the jughead (who, I agree, would insufferable), and, after him, the baldy.