These long bank holiday weekends are tiring things. Four days of socialising, drinking effectively non-stop, eating nothing except spiced meat, potatoes and gravy, burning in the sun; and all that after two days of exhibition openings, burning in the sun; and all that after two days of exhibition openings. I’ve just slept through Singing in the Rain, for about the twentieth time. I see the start, I see the end, but all the stuff in the middle is a mystery, like what they put in hotdogs. I must warn you now that I am extremely sleepy and have prepared no theme for today. So no interesting article, no amusing rant, no... None of the rest of it. So if you want to bail out now, don’t be embarrassed; I won’t be annoyed. There are other things for you to read.
|David Icke's totally plausible theory|
Three days back at work, for a nice rest, followed by another exhausting bank holiday. There’s the bloody royal wedding, which I’m not invited to. William is the same age as me yet looks about ten years older. You’d think with all his money and clandestine lizard power he’d be able to get some stem cells injected into his face. Perhaps he has and their main effect is to keep him in vaguely human form. Or it may be that generations of inbreeding can make people go old and bald before their time. The cost of one of their fancy-schmancy embroidered wedding napkins would pay for my entire wedding, plus the honeymoon, a large house, and all the food, holidays, and education to raise five children into adulthood; it’s a scandal.
I struggle to comprehend the fawning, cap-doffing, merchandise-buying obsession with the royal wedding. No idea where it has come from or what purpose it serves. 99% of our lives no one gives a shit about them. There was an embarrassing public howl of hysterical, self-pitying bleating when Diana popped off this mortal coil. There is absolutely no interest what-so-ever in the Queen’s speech on Christmas day; in 29 years I haven’t seen it once, and I suspect there is a fair to middling chance that neither have you.
Phillip and Camilla even moved the day of their wedding so the television coverage wouldn’t clash with Pope John Paul II’s funeral; this is bizarre beyond belief. The British monarchy is an inherently anti-Catholic institution, and the Pope is a twisted little nobody. The only reason for the change in scheduling can be a desperate admission that our own royal family rank so low in our minds that we’d rather glimpse at a picture of a box containing the corpse of an over-privileged bigot. The next step is rescheduling a royal wedding so as not to clash with a particularly gripping episode of Coronation Street.
Anyway, good luck to them, but you know, stop making so much noise about it. They are just people, and the only real privilege they deserve is to be first in line for the guillotine.
I never meant to end this post with a call for bloody anti-monarchist revolution, and I didn't. It was a funny joke.