I’ve often thought of the Royal Family in this country as a West End show.
The West End show. Overly colourful adverts at every bus stop and full page ads in the tabloid of choice, all topped off with five star recommendations from the idiot Saturday night cockney. Every one the greatest, the best, the funniest or the most irreverent show ever featuring the must have celebrity of the moment, almost certainly bi-polar.
If you’ve ever been to a West End show you’ll know how utterly disappointing the experience can be, the idiocy of the audience, the stupidity of the actors, the fucking hilarious banter. When I was younger I did some work experience at The Palace Theatre in Cambridge Circus, showing Les Miserables. Half way through my second night helping out on the sound desk I went for a toilet break and never went back. The overwhelming sense of guilt was soon tempered by the realisation that I’d never again have to witness Les Miserables, ever.
So that’s the Royal Family. A west end show for the masses to love and cherish, an all round family experience for the clapping fools to digest in handy bite sized chunks of misguided nationalism. The tabloids take care of the advertising, the mentally ill look after the all important celebrity endorsements and all you have to do is turn up and clap like a fucking Seal at Blackpool Sea Life Centre. We’re happy, they’re even happier.
The latest instalment of the West End favourite involves one of the nations best loved actors, the dashing Prince Harry. Otherwise known to his hoards of indulging fans as “The Party Prince”, the loveable rouge who delights the nation with his lack of political correctness and displays of dimwitted ballyhoo. In real life the over privileged goofy twat is actually an Army officer, a real one with a couple of shit A levels and a smart uniform for any occasion. No, really.
It’s in his real life role that the nations favourite is stirring up controversy. Literally spunking our cash into sluts and Veags hotel suites while the tabloid masses look on in a state of apathetic delight. Deliriously gobbling up stories of his naughtiness and posh hedonism ahead of a brave Military tour – back by popular demand. The fools lap it up because for some reason they think that people like me must be jealous (yes) and he’s living the life he does on behalf of the rest of us who actually have to get up in the morning and do something other than get cunted courtesy of the taxpayer.
Gut wrenching banter aside, if we’re to believe that the posh scruffy rouge really is an Army officer in real life, then he needs to start behaving in a manner befitting the post. Moreover, as a representative of an Army engaged with religious fundamentalism on the battlefield, he should consider the ramifications of his well publicised debauchery and how it is going to affect the blokes on the ground. His gormless pissed up face, revolting pubic hair and gaggle of big titted gangsta rap bitches will do little to ingratiate him with the Afghan elders. Although in reality the stupidity of tabloid Britain is too busy wanking at the thought of his West End heroics to consider that peace and decency might actually be a viable option for the Afghan people.
The “Party Prince” doesn’t have to worry though, he’ll see about as much action as I did the the Army – teaching a bunch of giggling Six Form girls how to play saxophone. Yes, that is actually what I did, and their little saxophone quartet was called We Love Sax, but that story is for another day.