Friday, April 29, 2011

290411 : First Republic


These are my last words on the subject. Then I can rest and get some sleep. I hope.

If you'd rather read something intellectual on the subject of the Royal Wedding, Monarchy, and Republicanism, may I point you in the direction of someone I regard as a genius, the very clever and brilliantly passionate and talented word-smith Mr. Simon Indelicate, who uses erudite sentences such as these:
If you realize that Republicanism (UK, not evil US Republicanism) is for you, then may I suggest you join REPUBLIC or, at the very least, read what they say on their website.

To summarize how I feel:

  • I don't believe that there should be a Monarchy.
  • I don't respect any unelected person who claims to rule over me, purely by accident of birth and the fallacy of God's Will.
  • Mainly because I don't believe in God.
  • And because unelected power can only be opposed by revolution.
  • And I'm a pacifist.

With regards to this wedding:
  • Who gets married on a Friday?
  • Because that's just showing off. Why not get hitched on a Saturday?
  • Then we wouldn't be forced into marking the big day with a Bank Holiday.
  • Forced into a pro-Monarchy position whether we like it or not.
  • And where is my invite?
  • Oh yeah, I'm not a dictator with an appalling human rights record. I forgot.
  • Can you genuinely think of a more effective and salient time to protest the Monarchy?
  • Me neither.

With regards to the bride and groom:

  • If it's love, then good luck to them. Like all couples marrying for the right reason (love) I sincerely hope that that love stays with them until the end.
  • But I don't really care that they are getting married anymore than I care any other people I've never met are getting married.
  • And I resent the fact that they will one day claim ownership of the land in which I live.
  • Therefore, I ain't getting no bunting out.
I've peppered these articles with music videos. I recall a fantastic song called Man-Made by a band called Credit To The Nation, for which there is no YouTube video, which suggested:

Take a black woman and a black man too / give them to the Royals so they can screw / Black woman with Edward /Black man with Andrew / Then the Windsors would have some colour.../ Edward would be pleased and Andrew would be happy and gay / And they'd set the rules by which they'd played.
Now these would be weddings / sex-tapes I might be interested in seeing.

You may remember me writing "But I wish that they would do the good, honest thing and dissolve the monarchy and fuck off to Las Vegas, and run their pathetic side-show in the new ‘Buck House’ hotel and casino complex" and I stand by that, 100%.

I don't want a violent revolution. I don't want one drop of blood to spill.

But I do want the Monarchy to go away.

I'm wearing my Sex Pistols T-shirt today and going to work. Bank Holiday my arse.

Two videos. 1 obvious. 1 less so.

Repeat after me: No Monarchy.


Goodnight, and mythical-invisible-white-haired-old-man-in-the-sky bless.


Monday, April 18, 2011

290411 : Les Misérables Destin d'Catherine Middleton


"Lady Di? Lady Di? RENOIR!"

She got a degree in History of Art. She could get a job at any gallery, perhaps even be the new Simon Schama. She was a fashion buyer for Jigsaw.

There are so many things that Catherine Elizabeth Middleton could do. Hell, she could go and work with her parents in their moderately successful party-bits business. And yet she's thrown it all way, she's about to make the worst decision of her life... which begs me to ask, Carrie Bradshaw style:

Seriously, Middleton, what are you thinking, marrying into royalty when you could be a successful independent woman, like Beyonce off of MTV?

After all, we all know how well some of your predecessors got on - Boleyn, Howard, Ferguson and Spencer to name a handful, and they weren't half as common as you.

Ultimately, you're giving away your life - your privacy, your enjoyment, your very being - to a supposedly more noble cause, for an alleged higher purpose, for the profits of what used to be Fleet Street.

You think it's a bit annoying now, not being able to get your security man to sweet talk traffic wardens without getting in the papers, well just you wait until you're properly institutionalised. That'll be fun.

Perfectly harmless toesucking on the beach will be front page news. Your husband will follow in Daddy's shoes and stick it to married posh girls behind your back. Every dress you wear can never be worn again.

Everywhere you go, flash bulbs and paps and respectable photojournalists and film crews and interviewers and flash bulbs and neon lights and TV presenters and news-readers will be in attendance amid the constant flash bulbs and you'll be consumed by madness and you'll never be skinny enough or you'll be too skinny and you'll throw yourself down the stairs in desperation to avoid another trip to another shopping centre to cut another ribbon because you can't do that with a broken ankle, and your kids will be taken from you and given to nanny, and sent off to public school, and your marriage will be in tatters, and you'll find yourself alone in Kensington Palace, in your private quarters. Only a butler for company. A butler and a salad. A butler and a salad and a desperate urge to get out of there, out of the stifled London, maybe head off to a fancy hotel with your lover, maybe in Paris. . . .


There is an easy way out. Don't show up next Friday.

Go shopping. Go to Bijou. Go anywhere, but the church.

If he loves you, he'll understand.

If he doesn't understand, he doesn't love you.

Marriage is an expression of love, not a submission to an antiquated and obsolete nationalistic and tribal institution.

You are being served up, as the main course, for a country desperate for your beauty, sucking you dry of emotion every time you visit a sick kid in hospital, pulling sequins off your dresses at state balls, and long-lens photographing every intimate moment.

Now's your chance. Learn from the mistakes of the past. Walk away.

Saturday, April 16, 2011

290411 : Charles Windsor, who's at the door?


Now then, the tee-shirt for sale at this shop is an absolute peach.
Designed by a fella called Tony Scalomi they truly are a work of art.

Why not buy it, and wear it on the big day?

Oh, and check out this lovely tune by the wonderful McCarthy, about some fella called Charles Windsor: it's wonderfully utopian ;)

Friday, April 15, 2011

290411 : Repeat After Me


The Best-Man. Organiser of the last hurrah, looky-afterer of the rings. Who better to choose than the flame-haired, Nazi uniform (replete with optional swastika) wearing, dope-smoking, user of foul racist language that is Henry Charles Albert David of Wales. Or Harry to the lovely ladies at the bar. Hey darling, rah-rah-rah, let me buy you a drink. See this Fifty-pound note - yah, that's my Nan, ah-hah.

The amount this little bugger has done wrong is incredible, given that he is only 26 years of age. Talking of swearing and the number 26 - guess which position in the UK Top 40 this song reached back in November '91.

(Adopts mid-Atlantic phony smug voice) This week, a new entry at number 26, it's the Manic Street Preachers with 'Repeat'. . .

Thursday, April 14, 2011

290411 : Elizabeth My Dear


So, the bridegroom is the most highly-educated member of that exclusive list of cousins who are currently heir-to-the-throne. He went to St Andrews, remember? To do a degree and that.

In fact, he went to St. Andrews to do a Masters in History of Art, but then changed courses and got a 2:1 in Geography. The award of an MA is less impressive when you realise that everyone there gets an MA instead of a BA, by doing an extra year. No external interviews and applying for funding for you, eh William?

Interestingly, it doesn't really matter that he went to Eton and only got ABC on his A-Levels (private education ain't what it used to be, right?). Queenie the Queen didn't even go to school. She was home-schooled in Constitutional History and had some French au-pairs/ nannies / lackeys to teach her to speak their language.

And of course, it's this precise kind of exacting grounding in politics, theology, sociology, history, law and philosophy that you expect from a self-proclaimed ruler, isn't it? Not A-Levels in History of Art, Geography and Biology (William), a 2:2 from Cambridge (Charles, and let's face it, the quality of the tution there is world-renowned for being terrible... oh), and, erm, her own Girl Guide troop (Liz - the 1st Buckingham Palace Guide Troop).

So here to sing us out is a song with four lines, is a minute long, and the only long words are 'conscience' and 'Elizabeth'. Therefore, you'd anticipate that some of the lesser members of the Windsor-Mountbatten mob might be able to both concentrate and understand the meaning of it.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

290411 : None of my Heroes Ain't Appeared on no Stamp


On the 29th April 2011, the son of a family of slightly-inbred superrich toffs, and a girl from the middle-classes – a hybrid of bluestocking and blue WKD – will marry. And it appears that the Eton-educated pillock who married an affluent heiress and became Prime Minister has decided that we all get the day off to watch the extravagant nuptials on the telly. Well fuck that.

The groom genuinely believes that God – that well-known, affable and personable being of scientifically twin-studied double-blind-tested proven existence – has given him the divine right to rule, unelected and undeniable. Albeit, only after his Nan, and then his Dad, die.

I mean, it’s hard enough to justify the belief in this 'God' that many have ‘faith’ in. But that God has decided for the people of the United Kindom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, that after revolutions, wars, invasions, porphyria, haemophilia, succession acts, not allowing females to take the crown, then allowing females to take the crown, locking kids in towers, sympathizing with the Nazis, murdering wives, getting cross with the Pope and the idea / fact that we’re only one lightning strike away from John Goodman becoming king, that this William fella was the one that He up in Heaven has predestined to be King - well that takes more suspension of disbelief and literary conceit than a shit science fiction novel.

I’m sure I wouldn’t be so cross and angry if he really was just a token figure head, but constitutionally, despite the separation of powers we have achieved over the years, he will still be the person who signs the bills, the acts, the laws. He’s hardly going to sign his own Eviction of Office notice, is he?

And the amount of money we, the public, have to fork out for the Old Dear, her casually-racist consort, the twice-married philandering heir, the divorced-daughter, the son who is a friend of a paedophile and all sorts of military juntas, and the son who has failed in every career apart from cashing-in on his name, and all their assorted ex-wives and drunken-children; well that amount of money could be so much better spent.

Of course, we should remember, that God says they can be Royal. And as such, we should give them our money so they can enjoy their lives. Although, wouldn’t it be fair if they kept their nose in their bibles, their cocks in their pants, their mouths shut and their hands out of the till? That would also be what God wants, wouldn’t it? Oh, what's it called, now? Yep, being a good Christian.

I only need a pittance to survive each year, according to my employers. So why do the Mountbatten-Windsor’s need so much from the ‘civil list’ each year, when they could just sell a painting or two?

Don’t worry, though. I’m a pacifist. I’m not off on some Guy Fawkesian mission. In fact, I’ll be happily in work on this prescribed day off. But I wish that they would do the good, honest thing and dissolve the monarchy and fuck off to Las Vegas, and run their pathetic side-show in the new ‘Buck House’ hotel and casino complex.

I wish.

Monday, April 11, 2011

99 Words: Disposables

A 99-word micro-fiction, by me.

I have elasticated amounts of disposable income. I spend it on clothes, comics, CDs, video-games, taxis, ready-meals, and Tesco’s Finest chocolate cookies. I have all the household appliances. I don’t have the time to do things by hand.

I’m lying. I have time. I just want to use it in an entirely different way. Even packing the dishwasher is a burden; unpacking it is just as annoying. I’d rather just use paper plates and plastic knives and forks, but Ellie says it’s bad for the environment.

‘But I’d still use a proper coffee mug, rinsed out. Occasionally’

Ellie sighs.

Saturday, April 9, 2011

99 Words: The Wedding

A 99-word micro-fiction, by me.

Stephen and Rebecca met. I don’t know how.

I’ve known of him since we were little. Me and Steppy have been friends for years. He plays bass-guitar and football, and is good at numbers.

Me and Becca, we’ve never met.

It’s OK though.

I’ve seen her photo on facebook: she looks nice.

I’ve heard her in the background of a long-distance telephone call: she sounds nice, too.

She’s marrying someone that I respect and admire and love and am amused by and am in awe of: we clearly have a lot in common.

Cherish the day: relish the life.