Sigh. I guess on the flip side the Royals keep outdated modes of transport alive, like the horse and coach. They also give talentless hacks like Jilly Cooper something to write about and toffs somewhere to go with Polo. All Royal Families seem to have a joy of riding horses or vice versa in the case of Catherine the Great.
Charles also gives hope to every balding wing nut in the country with his marriage to Princess Diana. There is a feeling within this, quite rightly ostracised community, that they too can get it on with a shy beauty but learning from his mistakes and decide to talk to them and take them on holiday, just maybe not Paris.
The Royal Family seems able to keep the feet of celebrity firmly on the ground, Heather Mills and Steven Hawing aside. Otherwise glory seeking, rabidly attention seeking media whores will politely stand in line, bow/curtsey, uttering quiet pleasantries instead of drinking and swearing like a maniac as Princess Margaret has the floor on those occasions.
If it wasn’t for the Royal Family we would have a higher rate of unemployment in this country, forced to stand in the dole queue behind prima donnas like Judy Dench, Helen Mirren and Cate Blanchett.
There are associated jobs, which without such institutions such as the Royal family, would be obsolete such as being a butler. Such underlings would be living in bus stations for sure, helping vagrants pour their Blue Nun and meths. Without such a regal body willing to revel in imposing servitude, essentially bone idle slave traders, the domestic help market would surely be extinct like the dodo or Dodi.
Most importantly, the Queen gives my gran something to look forward to on Christmas day other than the relief of flatulence. The Queen’s Speech is like a slow death, which is what most pensioners can relate to in an instant. As soon as her majesty appears on screen it also reminds me it’s time to pull my own, paper, crown over my eyes and sleep until the New Year.
Tourists just love the Royal Family, lapping them up like crack fuelled, dehydrated, calves under bloated British bovine. They buy the hats, the flags, the t-shirts and take photographs more fervidly than paparazzi pursuing a limo into a tunnel, thus disseminating a stereotypical image of England around the world. This image is a lucrative one, meaning greater tourism and exports, helping to erect our limp economy.
Basically, unless there is a brave soul out there willing to massacre the Royals, we’re stuck with them. They’re part of our history and part of our immediate future, albeit as performing monkeys to entice gullible foreign trade.
I think the occasional racism is taken with a pinch of salt because it seems to be just ingrained within the family. If that wasn’t the case, we’d have been at war with China in the 80s after the Duke of Edinburgh’s incredible powers of subtlety.
Most of all, I like the way my gran looks at the TV, engrossed in the image of the Queen, someone with whom she has grown up with through the war period and subsequent years. She doesn’t listen to a word the wrinkled old tart is speaking of course. I think the Queen is just the one person my grandmother has seen, unfailing every year, almost since she was born. They’ve grown old together and the Queen symbolises life itself in perhaps a now unfamiliar world.
So give them some leeway, at least until my grandparents generation have passed, then it’s open season at Buckingham Palace. Stick a foxtail on each of their naked bodies and paint them red. Bind their wrists and ankles with gaffer tape and watch them bounce with panic into the woods. Load the shotguns, unleash the hounds and sound the bugles of a new era.
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