I love royalty.
I love the tiaras. I love the castles. I love the constant portrait painting. And I’ve been obsessed since an early trip to England, where at 5 years old, I was purchased a Princess Diana paper doll with corresponding outfits.
I can still see each outfit: the red maternity dress, the blue gown, the constant jewelry, the ever present crown. Perhaps standing outside Buckingham Palace watching the changing of the guard in a Harrod’s wool coat and matching beret (which, of course, I still have), I decided right then and there.
Castles. Gowns. Tiaras.
My mother thought we were sightseeing. I thought we were planning my future.
I mean it. I could do this. Throw me in a fur cape, stick some diamonds on my head and kick my ass into a throne. Somewhere in the back of my head, I’ve been scheming for a goddamn HRH in front of my name for years.
Well, folks. The dream has died.
I just saw The Queen.
First of all, sadly I’ve always identified much more with loudmouth Fergie, Duchess of Pork than the effervescent, doe-eyed Princess Diana. I’m much more likely to stand around the palace kitchen, making bad fashion choices and sneaking Brandy with Jeeves than cradling AIDS babies and batting the flies out of the eyes of African children. The only thing Diana and I would have had in common was Elton John.
That being said, I’ve idolized that woman since I idolized that paper doll in 1983. And I am now pissed at the Queen. She’s ruining everything! The whole point of being royalty is wretched excess, appalling behavior and incest. This commitment to stoic, uptight, frumpy restraint is a waste of fabulous resources.
Aside form the fact that those Windsor’s are portrayed not really giving a shit about Diana’s death, which is disgusting, their whole attitude about being royalty is boring and unappreciative. They need look no further than King Ralph for a glowing example of how to conduct oneself.
Finally, I wanted to see more Prince William sobbing hysterically and lamenting his dead mother. Is that wrong…