Royal Baby #3

I like to think that I am a good person, but fundamentally, I must be a bitch, (as well as a hypocrite if you look at my last post about women supporting women), because I can’t help feeling a tad jealous about the way Kate squeezed out another heir, seemingly without a perfectly-coiffed, soft-curled hair out of place. Which leads me to suspect that they’ve legalized marijuana in the Lindo Wing.

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I’m certain that in the past twenty-four hours, every loaded, heavily pregnant woman in London has added herself to the hospital’s cancellation list and is hastily changing their birth plan to ‘whatever she had.’

I mean, you look at the woman (who, in a less privileged life could have been a successful catwalk model), and you have to question where exactly in her body she stored that eight-pound baby, and where she found the energy to push him out. I bet she never got accused of having child-bearing hips – thanks, Granny.

I’m sure many of us women have watched Kate’s pregnancies with the same tinge of (well, let’s call it) admiration. And some of us might even have felt that there was a touch of karma involved in her hyperemesis gravidarum. Just me, then? Because the term ‘all bump’ was an exaggeration for a woman who has never really looked pregnant until the last hour of any of her pregnancies.

I struggled to keep both of mine under wraps until the twelve-week scan. And frankly, I still get asked if I’m pregnant. 

And how fricken amazing did the woman look when she left the hospital? Bearing in mind that most women teeter out gingerly with that lumpy pad between their legs, rock-hard boobs and the sort of soreness down below that makes contemplating ever sitting on the toilet again an impossibility. Yet somehow, Kate managed to look like the baby had been airlifted out of her, or at worst, removed via keyhole surgery. I looked like I was on the way to the morgue.

I couldn’t show my face in public for weeks after the births of my two babies. I lied about them not feeding – I think I used the word “starving” – to extend my hospital visit for as long as possible, until eventually, they wheeled me out onto the street, screaming, ‘But I’m not ready.’

And I wasn’t.

I know she had help. Presumably, a Royal medical SWAT team that would have climbed in there and pulled the heir out if push came to shove. And I understand that, in general, each birth gets that bit quicker and easier. But I can’t decide if the speed of her recovery and her styled appearance has done us a favor by highlighting the incredible strength of womankind in the face of one of the greatest tests that nature throws at us, (apart from men), or if she’s set up any woman that needs a few years weeks to recover, to look a bit lightweight.

 

 

Heghan – There’s Something About Harry

I failed miserably to maintain the cynicism of my Royal Grinchness as I watched the Harry/Meghan engagement interview yesterday, although it is irritating how difficult it is to turn their names into some catchy moniker such as Kimye or Brangelina, which is why I’ve decided on Heghan

 

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My apologies – I’ve used this phot before. But I bloody love it!

 

I only watched the interview for research purposes, obviously, but I have to admit that not even the stony chambers of my cold heart could fail to be moved by the young couple’s declarations of love. Sure, they are both old hands at the media game – which helps – and Harry does a fine job of concealing his contempt for the press. But he knows how is bread is buttered, and at thirty-three, it’s time to add to the most famous family tree and tow the family line.

 

Meghan, meanwhile, appeared a natural; supremely confident in who she is and in her relationship with the spare. Let’s face it, the job description ain’t bad – she gets to carry on with her humanitarian work and live in a palace, with far less scrutiny than poor Wills and Catherine. When the reporter brought up the question of children, I could feel my middle-aged ovaries beat loudly against the crumbling sides of my uterus.

 

Meghan’s response to the reporter’s baited question about sacrificing her career for a man was impressively measured. Personally, I probably would have leapt off the sofa and beat the shit out of her for opening, what I am sure, is a fairly recent wound. But who wouldn’t make a career shift for Harry? There’s definitely something about that boy. And even I, bitter and twisted Feminist that I am, can see the influence of this couple together, whose work stands to leave a far greater legacy than Meghan’s role in Suits – I should mention that the old man disagrees on this point. These kids make the Obamas, the Beyonces and Brangelina look like Barbie and Ken, so all credit to this girl – there aren’t many of us who’d choose the slums of third world countries over time on set with Harvey Specter.

 

I suspect she is aware of the daunting future she has ahead of her: spearheading campaigns, keeping on the right side of the RF – a welcoming, open-minded family, from what I hear – procreating and taming Harry, whose wildness, (linked to PTSD, I believe) will never be contained. But if there was any sense from the interview about who wears the trousers in this relationship, it wasn’t the fifth in line to the throne and that’s probably what Harry needs.

 

The boy done good. He, out of all the Royals is the one the public identifies most with. If his mother was the Queen of Hearts, he is the prince. He has conquered the public through his closeness to normalcy, he has grown up with us and always worn his heart on his sleeve for us, as well as making the sort of public cock-ups, (that while awkward at the time), have endeared us to him. What’s not to love when he slips into the modern-day vernacular to talk about ‘upping his game’ for Meghan? Swoon.

 

The world will never forget Harry’s face, plastered across our tv screens, as he followed his mother’s coffin down the Mall – the face of a boy whose heart had been ripped out. And I always sensed that he would need a strong woman to fill the shoes of the most important woman in his life. It looks like he has found her, and while most of us have come to realise that fairy tales are a load of bollocks, I’m keeping my fingers crossed for this one.

Tea With The Royals In Sydney

Wills and Kate
Wills and Kate (Photo credit: Scorpions and Centaurs)

Some people just can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

 

I thought that when I migrated to the other side of the world I would escape my national debt to Royalty.

 

But now they’ve turned up on my doorstep in Sydney.

 

Kurt was very excited when he saw the police turn up in our street yesterday. He thought that someone had died. But it turned out that Kate and Will were ‘just passing’ and then they swished past me again today in their cavalcade while I was out walking quickly jogging. One of the other locals asked me if I’d waved ‘hi’ to Will and Kate.

 

‘No’, I said, ‘they’re family.’

 

I used to be a Royalist when I was growing up. In those days, you had to be when you lived in London, otherwise they locked you up in the Tower and threw away the key.

 

My first schoolgirl crush wasn’t Simon Le Bon from Duran Duran – it was Prince Charles. I’ve always had peculiar taste in men. I even wrote to him once to tell him how much I admired him and Buckingham Palace wrote back to acknowledge my letter and to remind me that the Prince didn’t have time to respond to every member of the riff raff due to the demands of his busy schedule.

Duran Duran: Simon Le Bon Gets Crowd Involved
Duran Duran: Simon Le Bon Gets Crowd Involved (Photo credit: pj_in_oz)

 

Then he met Diana and I felt slighted. She was more beautiful that I was and she was ‘connected’. I think I finally realized then that I would never be his Princess.

 

Nevertheless, I still went to the Royal Wedding with my own family. I stood on the streets of the Mall from 5.30am with the rest of the British population, waving my flags and waiting for my precious glimpse of ‘the one that got away’. The Royal couple was symbolic of the fairy tale that we were girls were brought up to aspire to, then.

 

Thank Fuck for feminism that things changed.

 

I found my own frog prince, eventually. Not a prince exactly, but a partner. He’s not the stereotypical one that I thought I’d fall for back when I still had princess aspirations but he’s grown on me over the years.

 

Union Jack
Union Jack (Photo credit: .craig)

There were so many times in my young life that I stood in front of Royal houses and palaces and had British history rammed down my throat and although the strength of my feelings for Royalty has diminished with age, I still remember the emotions linked to patriotism and pride at being part of that club. The union jack can still make my heart swell.

 

Royalty drove past my palace today. Funny how things can come full circle over the course of a life.

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Kate Middleton: A Tale Of Two Mammaries

Once upon a time, (a very long, long time ago), when I was approaching the age of four and my world innocently revolved around varying tones of pink, anorexically thin Barbies (with unnaturally large breasts) and sugar and spice and all things nice, I fervently believed in fairy tales. That my Prince Charming would someday hunt me down, declare his undying love and as a token of his love, gift me a limitless MasterCard.

But pretty soon I began to meet real men and I wised up matured a bit, experienced a few dissatisfying relationships with some uncommitted, unsavory ‘frogs’ and the cynicism set in. And so, by my mid twenties, I had regretfully reached the conclusion that fairy tales are one of life’s major disappointments, a bit like the Walton family not being real.

I certainly would never have believed it possible that one day a prince from our own Royal Family would marry into the ‘people’! I thought that the Royal Family only mutated with their own ‘posh’ kind, that they liked the uncertainty of in-breeding, of producing offspring who looked suspiciously like their equine forefathers.

We have Diana to thank for the bulldozing of the palace walls. Diana the kindergarten teacher, (who in spite of being the daughter of an Earl, was still depicted as being a little too ‘common’), who managed to break into that Royal enclave and cause some ‘embarrassing episodes’, (the People’s Princess had her own agenda regarding good and evil too). And it was those actions that would ultimately launch the palace into the twenty-first century, force it to evaluate its traditions, to evolve, to develop some new spin and ‘get with the times’. To finally grasp the fact that most of humankind pertain to the idea of egalitarianism.

And the newer, more hip breed of Royals embraced the mess ideals left by Diana, and threatened to shake up the whole historical Royal lineage thing and knock it on its head, and they took some radical (and often misguided) action to try and make themselves appear ‘normal’ to their subjects; like appearing in crass tv shows and courting commoners. Which gave the common man some hope for the first time; a bit like the lottery does. It was suddenly like everyone had an equal chance of shagging a Royal, winning the golden ticket like Charlie Bucket did, and living the fairy tale dream.

Then Kate Middleton appeared on the Royal scene and slammed the winning ball right into the back of the net. She unceremoniously nabbed her prince when he was unprotected by his force of bodyguards, and so it came about that the elements of the fairy tale had to be slightly reworked.

A contemporary version was created in which the setting changed to a Scottish university, where there was a plethora of animated and privileged polo horses, (often referred to as ‘debutantes’), helicopters and ridiculously petite Victoria Beckham dresses with matching nude shoes, and the ugly sisters were replaced by some ugly ginger cousins and an ADHD brother in law, (who was a bit of a laugh really, but who had to be packed off to Afhganistan, for the future well-being of the monarchy).

And the future Queen of England became a modern-day Cinderella, admired by her kingdom for her natural beauty, her flowing chestnut tresses and her attempt to look like ‘one of us’ by wearing the same dress twice. And she was only despised by a handful of bitter old menopausal women who envied her tiny Elizabethan waist a little too much, and the media, who, let’s face it, despise anyone who has created their own fortune. And she became a Royal IT-Girl, who now travels the world by private jet and is the muse of the world’s finest fashion designers. And in return for the adoration and financial support of her public, her only real duties are to make the monarchy look effective and produce an heir.

For as effortlessly entertaining as it must be to have Harry as her brother-in-Law (him being a fellow naturist), duty is indeed the downside of her pact with the palace. For whereas Pippa (the tight assed mentor with the #YOLO attitude in our tale) can court the press and flaunt her assets, Kate has does have some direct responsibilities as future queen. Although coping with William’s bald patch, his snotty extended family, yappy corgis and having to live in Wales are really the only ‘trade-offs’, so it’s not such a bad deal really. Which is why, on those FML days, when all that wealth and adulation gets too much, or the pregnancy test comes back negative AGAIN and she decides unwisely to liberate those pert Royal puppies within the radius of a wide-angled lens, one has to question her wisdom and those of her advisors.

No-one denies that she is entitled to privacy, but her fairy tale is set in the real world where images of Royal breasts are a hot commodity and attract serious gold coinage.

Rogue cameras, the pressure to procreate, and having to deal with sychophants on a daily basis are all annoyances, to be sure, but evil lurks in every fairy tale and maybe our heroine needs to wise up and learn how to resolve conflict, rather than feeding it and whinging about it afterwards.

Time will tell if those evil “grinning perverts”of the paparazzi (The Telegraph) do finally get to Will and Kate, like they did to Diana. I hope not. Let’s hope they get the chance to fulfil the public fantasy and live happily ever after.

The End.

Royal Wedding Souvenir courtesy of sevenyearitchs at www.fllckr.com