I had a peak at the Telegraph yesterday while nobody was looking, why I find it necessary to upset myself I don’t know, but that’s just the way it is. It’s a bit like being completely unable to stop staring at the hardest looking bloke in the pub – basic intrigue.
So what possesses the Telegraph to print pictures of the royal family on its front page twice in three days? I mean it’s not as if we’re in the middle of a World Cup campaign for instance, or presiding over the collapse of another country with outrageously over stretched armed forces. Talking of which, the irony that is pictures of the Commanders in Chief sitting in splendour on page 10, opposite those of soldiers being stoned in the heat and dust on page 11 is almost definitely lost on the papers readers.
Tuesday’s Telegraph pictures two royal daughters, unfortunate enough to inherit their fathers looks, dressed up like Violet Beauregarde and Veruca Salt in distastefully expensive clothing. Apparently they are attending a service that installs their father and uncle as Royal Knights of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.
What the hell is one of those? Maybe that’s the point here, the more obscure and elitist the ceremony the less likely others are to criticise – if only through not having the faintest idea what it’s all about. Which explains why footballers wives attract far more vitriol than say, Freemasonry.
Anyone a little more cynical would claim that one of those suited sycophants at the palace pulled this honour from a particularly erotic royal wet dream. Moreover, what the hell are Andrew and Edward supposed to do as Royal Knights of the Most Noble Order of the Garter? Put it on the CV underneath the Duke of Edinburgh’s award?
Which poses the simple question, now what? It’s not like they’ve worked on the buses in Tamworth for 40 years and have been invited to the palace for a cup of tea and an afternoons patronisation. Only to be featured in the Daily Mail wearing a cheap suit as normal people recognised for a lifetimes dedication to slavery.
The sight of the queen bestowing honours onto her own family is little different from that of Saddam Hussein pinning medals on the chest of his sons. Just like queen unveiling a statue of herself in Windsor park, it is an almost humorously bizarre mix of pythonesque self promotion and camp theatre.
Unveiling a statue of yourself, a little like attending ones own funeral. Did that strike anyone else as slightly weird?
This is the ultimate accolade for any discerning royal, achievable only through birth it requires nothing other than simple existence. Just like those awards given to inane celebrities, its purpose is little more than an advertisement that underpins what is the greatest swindle the world has ever seen. Another chapter in the sneering annuals of self preservation and greed.
Who are these people?