Well, here we are on the cusp of the royal wedding and aren’t we all excited. Why?
What on earth do the doings of a bunch of snobby upper-class Pommie dole bludgers have to do with Australia? Oh, that’s right, the near-immortal matriarch of this ever-expanding brood is our head of state.
It’s The Empire Farts Back, darlings, with ostrich feathers on top, nice-but-dim chaps in colourful shoot-me-now-I’m-an-officer uniforms from the pre-rifle era, attended by grumpy horse-faced females with a leg at each corner, in bad designer frocks.
It’s been said before, but I’ll say it again — the notion of a hereditary ‘ruler’ makes about as much sense as a hereditary nuclear physicist or a hereditary garbo.
Not that this bunch ‘rule’ anything, they merely ‘reign’, poncing about providing photo opportunities and mouthing meaningless platitudes: opening parliaments, swimming pools, shopping centres and occasionally frightening the life out of disaster victims.
They are the giant pandas of England — icons of their homeland, and very nearly extinct outside a very narrow range of habitats. But unlike their Chinese counterparts, they don’t have to be coached in breeding behaviour. They pop ’em out in a regular production line.
A world without pandas would be immeasurably poorer, but a world without Lillibet Battenberg and her ever-expanding tribe would be safer, quieter and significantly more bearable. Away with all the cartloads of princess-poo pouring from Ita’s Buttrose and bring on democracy, say I.
An elected head of state can be swapped out when their time is up, or even sooner, if they are caught shagging a ranga captain of the guard.
Who cares if they are too dim to do up their seatbelts when they do a runner with the son of a rich Middle Eastern shopkeeper.
And if a would-be president starts chattering to the camellias, and clambering into bed with elderly ladies, muttering “I’m a tampon, I’m a tampon”, we just call the ambulance and gently wave him away. We don’t have to hang around for years praying he dies before his mum.
And now here comes another generation ready to indulge their penchant for Texan toe-sucking at public expense. And we’re expected to celebrate?
I wish the Poms would flog the lot off to Disney for a cut of the take. Stick ’em in a replica Windsor Castle in a Florida swamp and charge the tourists to come and take tea with a Real Queen. This way out, ladies and gentlemen, through the Olde Englishe Gifte Shoppe, get your knighthoods here, earldoms on special this week.
Rent out the prince with the brownshirt uniform to jaded businessmen in search of a bit of rough.
Hereditary ‘noblemen’ will no longer sit in the Lords. Let Liz be the last hereditary monarch to sit on the throne. And bugger the royal wedding.