Camilla, as I have mentioned before, being from the British upper class, has a somewhat peculiar sense of humour, and is determined to play at least one practical joke at the wedding. When she telephoned last night, I told her that she was already lacking in popularity and had better watch her step, but she would not be deterred. I am so glad I am not going.
It took me ten minutes to dissuade her from hiring a princessDi-ogram to jump out of the wedding cake. Giving Anne a horse trough instead of a plate was also ruled out, but not without resistance on her part. “Why don’t you just behave for one day, and enjoy the occasion,” I counselled, “everyone will be telling you how l lovely you look, and when is that likely to happen again?”
“What about my strapping a cucumber inside my knickers, so it looks like I have a stiffy?” she asked. “As if, as if,” I said, “you sound so common, ‘as if’, not ‘like’. You’ll be the only one there who does have a stiffy”. Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.
This still failed to dampen her spirits. She recounted the tale of how someone had laced princess Margaret’s prawn cocktail with amphetamines at Andrew’s wedding, causing her to attempt Irish folk dances during Philip’s speech. “You’ve got that wrong, sweetie”, I said, “Margaret told me she could only ever go to these events while strongly drugged, so there was no need for spiking her food. At one of the queen’s birthday parties, the soup course lasted three and a half hours while Margaret watched dolphins perform King Lear in her mulligatawny.”
13 comments:
Don't be silly. Your great concern for the welfare of our future Queen sorry Consort Royal only goes to demonstrate what a cracking Pope you'd be. How's your Italian?
Yes, but I'm also in line to be the next Dalai Lama.
(You should have seen my mother's face when I turned up at the door with half a dozen Tibetans, who had dragged me out of nursery school to quiz me about Bardos and prayer wheels).
I therefore need to brush up on my Tibetan, and don't have time for all that Popery nonsense.
Not sure I understand what Brigitte Bardo has to do with this. I hope you always butter your toast clockwise, in the true buddhist manner.
Might be a hoot if Harry lends her the Nazi regalia
The question is, how do you look in a bed sheet with no hair?
Weren't you looking? That's the last time I make a fucking effort.
I can't see that far, Alan Rickman stole my fucking binoculars.
Now, now. Language, language, boys and girls...
Vicus, I am afraid that I shall not be able to provide you with a personal account of the Academy Awards as I had hoped. When Gary arrived to pick me up Alan also arrived (both have been after me for years), a brawl ensued on my front lawn. In disgust I ordered them off the premises, so I shall not be attending. Alan still hasn't returned my fucking binoculars.
Note to Mark, you know I adore you, but if mention my language, I shall have to pelt you with olives.
Don't worry too much, BH, it may be a show of petulance on my part, but I try to ignore the Oscars these days. Ever since the night that Halle Berry burst into tears when I refused to comply with her somewhat perverted demands, and created such a scene.
mmmmmmmmmmmmm olives!!!!!!!!
(I will only consent to a pelting if they're the black ones. Preferably stuffed with garlic and the stones removed)
i hadn't realised that you were such a party-pooper, vicus. there is absolutely no way that i shall be inviting you to our vow-taking ceremony which will happen sometime, although we're not sure when. there's this slight problem of transport to tanzania.
Does this have anything to do with manhole covers at all?
The Berry woman redeemed herself a bit the other night at the Razzies, but that's no reason to keep coming round mine and shouting through the letterbox.
Is that puff of white smoke a sign we have a new Pope, or just your thighs chafing?
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