‘Orrible ‘istory

Meghan and Harry? I really can’t be arsed. She said what she said, whether it was fake, or true or just a brilliant acting job, she said what she said. Whether it was learnt, remembered or improvised she had her say. Harry stood by her, sat by her, holding her hand whilst she said what she said and then he said what he said. Whether he’s weak, calculating or just plain Royal, he talked with Queen Winfrey and told us how he nearly felt. We watched in our millions and we wondered whether ‘THE CROWN’ drama was as accurate as it had appeared. We made our judgement and Piers Morgan lost his job over it.
Social media has been creaming its knickers, look at;
Her dress – look a birds pooped on it, and she looks like Wallace Simpson.
Her hair – look how insecure she is moving her bangs about
Her jewellery – she’s worth millions
Her rescue hens – as if she’d finger through the chicken shit with her own bare hands.
And over her accusations of racism in ‘The Firm’.
“So what that she’s coloured.” said a friend of mine. ‘Coloured’ in 2021 from an intelligent woman who still uses Colonial language.
Social media has jumped on Harry;
Is he Charles son?
Does he love his mama?
Is he Diana’s off cut?
Watching the ex-royal couple play in the Malibu sand do we even give a fuck?
Well, apparently we do, otherwise I wouldn’t be wanking on about it. It seems that everybody is talking about what everybody already knew that The Royal family is an institution; a band of such wealthy individuals that only Lillibet and her closest allies know what’s in their vaults.
They head up our nation. Our first family, and they stick together, whether it’s Fascism, Racism, or Woking Pizzarism, they stick together like the Cosa Nostra. And lets be honest, there are loads of them and loads of them that have friends in high places, and those of them in the high places are happily supporting ‘The Firm’ so that the rest of us sit with our chin in our hands and natter and twitter and take our eyes off the ball.
Not that I have anything against the Monarchical clan, but you would agree that they are set apart and out of touch; huddled away in their castles, released to do their charitable duties and lest we forget they represent us as a nation. There are those in the UK who look to the Windsors for guidance, for a reason to feel entitled under their entitlement; sleeping outside Buckingham Palace if only to get a tiny glimpse of their Royal arses. Wars are fought for them, flunkies are hired for them, magazines are printed about them. But as the economy tanks, and the NHS sways from side to side like an unclad tower block, as millions of pounds are squandered on an inner coterie of Tory investors who secretly sell off boxes of unused medical supplies, as Brexit insidiously dismantles our European links, as Nigel Farage slopes back into his cave, as a constitutional argy bargy grips our headlines should we really be giving a flying fuck?
Well whether we like it or not the rug has been lifted and the moths and wood lice are escaping. The American actress with a tote bag full of accusations has shaken up a nation – mental health, lack of compassion, dysfunctionality. The Queen’s subjects have complained in their thousands about a telly presenter, but as yet, haven’t shouted loudly enough about the hike in their Council Tax or the use of their funds to cover a national debt that is piling up. The Sussexes, whether it was intentional or not, have inadvertently made us all give a fuck.
It’s not about whether we like Harry and his missus, it’s not about whether we like Piers Morgan, it doesn’t matter whether we think the Queens is sweet and, at 96, is still doing her duty on behalf of us. It’s all about, ‘where do we fit into this royal rigmarole’? They head up a pecking order of such historic weight that we turn a blind eye when they cover up for each other, because we are the untermenches, too busy shovelling shit on their behalf.
So what if Betty Windsor strips her sons of titles, cars, land; so what if she waggles her royal digit in admonishment, those sons of the Crown, get away with murder. So what if our Head of State has to confer with the Government, it’s Her Majesties Government and whoever has the final word, we still shuffle around doffing our caps to a family that wouldn’t know the price of a tomato if it were thrown at them, or the smell of sweat, or how to do their own buttons up if it weren’t for the likes of the button-uppers they employ.
So, whether I give a rats arse or not if Kate-to-be-queen wears her Zara dress for the fourteenth time, or whether Camilla is menopausal, all this has made me wonder whether I am being played. Those toffs in their side rooms who bow and scrape, who curtsy and grovel; those servants of the Crown who write rules, rewrite rules and snivel as they serve them, are part of a pyramid of power. As they prop up the status quo then travel back to the home counties their Sherry awaiting, remember it is a game of us and them or them and us. For make no mistake our class system has been prodded in the ribs by an American upstart with royal pretensions who now mixes her African American blood, with a dash of white European blood and now a vial full of the vital liquid which is coloured blue. So if the Senior Windsors do their duty then be rest assured they expect us to do ours, but what precisely is it?
What is our role anymore, us little people at the bottom of the pile? What is our purpose? Whatever it is let us remember, as we are buried under a mound of shit, to keep our mouths tightly shut and try not to swallow any of it.