Sympathy for the Monarchy
by Seymour

Apart from MIke slapping my leg with his cock this morning, my most eyebrow-raising spectacle of the last month-and-a-bit has been the sheer desperation of the press (and not just the tabloids - the supposedly highbrow broadsheets, ITV and BBC news, even Radio One) to convince the public that the Royal Family really are still worth giving a semi-limp toss about (you could almost smell the fear of the editorial meetings wafting off each screaming front page - "No-one cares about them anymore, Rupe! They just ain't shiftin' units!"). On the day of the Queenie Mum's funeral, as Israeli troops bombed the sweet holy hell out of a Palestinian refugee camp just in case it contained a few terrorists, kickin', bitchin', down-with-the-kids-&-avin'-it-large Radio One dedicated two thirds of Newsbeat to the exciting news that a) she was still dead, b) many people knew who she was and c) this meant she was now "history"; following which amazing revelations, Mark & Lard came on air to show their respects by "doing" sombre, in the style of Nicky Fucking Campbell, by playing only the dirgiest pop ballads and sounding all thoughtful between songs, as if pondering the life of someone who'd led a really inspiring life full of hard work and good deeds and, like, any points of interest (beyond, "Oh, she used to go and talk to normal people when there was a war on" - how very good of her!).
And therein lies the problem: that for all the millions of pounds they fritter away on donuts and shoes, all the hideously ugly horse-faced inbred mutant offspring they produce, all the sad, mucky affairs they carry out, Jilly Cooper-style, with their distant cousins in the back of some shit-stinking barn, they're still so disgustingly, mind-numbingly, arse-cripplingly fucking BORING it's a wonder millions of people aren't out storming the Palace just to ask for their money back. For the amount of entertainment we really get from them (and "an excuse to get Rowan Atkinson back on telly" doesn't count for much), you may as well get a copy of the Dido album with your pay slip each month - I mean, why aren't they out hunting endangered animals, or scaling mountains, or leading thousands of men to a hopelessly bloody death, like in the good old days when a man was a man and you could burn old ladies at the stake for putting weevils in your custard? Back in simpler, unhappier times, the whole idea behind the monarchy was that people looked up to them; they believed they were created by God to lead us, that they were flawless and perfect and, like, really, really cool. But the moment Elvis first wiggled his hips at the World, the rot began to set in, for Monarchy and religion; why be a princess or a priest when you can dance like the devil and shag loads of people? We have our New Royalty: we've got our Poshes and Beckses, and dumb as they may be, at least they tangibly did something to make their millions. You might not think they deserve it, but you can't deny they made an impact; and they don't look like someone beat their faces into shape with an iron.
But my main reason for hating the Royals isn't personally against any one of them; it's against how the rest of us scum are treated by comparison. In February, while I was off poncing round the country to try and convince people to buy our last single, a friend of mine, who'd been battling with anorexia and depression for the best part of 10 years, killed herself while under supposedly specialist care in an NHS hospital. This might sound fair enough - mistakes happen, and it was hardly a surprise that someone like Roz would take her own life, considering that she'd been trying for so long. But she'd already tried to kill herself once that week; and when they found her - sorry, when her boyfriend found her, after 2 days of the staff assuming she'd just run away and would probably come back - she was hanging in the laundry cupboard of the ward she'd gone missing from.
When the Queen Mum died, she had no less that 80 people looking after her; when she trouble breaking wind, there was a team of experts on hand to move her into a position where she could fart with minimum distress. My supremely fucked-up but brilliant, incredibly funny friend, who helped talk me through my own bulimia and depression-induced breakdown even though she herself was falling to pieces, went missing from a psychiatric ward and no-one even bothered to look for her. No-one cared. But why should they? It's not like she was, y'know, important or anything. She wasn't paid millions of pounds every year just for sitting on her arse. She didn't live in a palace; she'd never been on the front of the News of the World. She was just like you and me. And as long as we continue to insult ourselves by perpetuating the idea that some people are more important, more deserving of love and care than others because they were born into the right family or just because they can afford it, we're fundamentally no better a society now than when we used to send the sinful paupers to the Workhouse.
Take care, bye for now, love from Seymour xxx
30th April 2002