Royal Watch

A Right Royal Farce

May 04, 2018

Multiple Pages
A Right Royal Farce

Another British royal wedding is hoving ineluctably into view. I was at the last one. The memory of that candyfloss patriotism still makes me puke. Noam Chomsky likes opining about the “manufacture of consent.” Royal weddings represent an even more insidious moment: the manufacture of patriotism. The very elixir of which the country has been sucked dry is suddenly in demand. And not only by the people but by all the media and political snouts sniffing at the air of a Great National Event.

How far to pull the pin from such a political hand grenade? Too much and the daemons of nationalism may never return to their Pandora’s box. To little and people might be reminded of what the Sceptred Isle has really become: a Ballardian sexual dystopia far from the Sullivanesque nuptials of the Windsor family. And so a Wedding Planning Committee of equerries and civil servants starts sorting the good national semiotics from the bad. A flypast of Spitfires? Stirring but safely in the past: tick! Bunting? Given that vintage fetishism has proved such an effective aspic on the minds of the young: check! At William’s wedding, they even permitted some street parties. The very acme of Good Old Blighty! No drinking or singing, of course, or anything else reminiscent of the merry homeostasis of the past. No wonder that when the English are allowed to drink, they drink too much. It is because they have nothing left to drink to.

“Even I’ve trodden the boards and given money to beggars; so why isn’t the flame-haired bastard marrying me?”

And who is—if you’ll forgive the pun—our next Duchess? Meghan Markle, a daughter of the New World described as an “actress and humanitarian.” Is that all it takes to snag a prince? What about generations of breeding-and-bearing? Even I’ve trodden the boards and given money to beggars; so why isn’t the flame-haired bastard marrying me? There have been complaints that Harry is marrying beneath himself, yet none expressed themselves more eloquently than Princess Michael, who wore a blackamoor broach to the Queen’s Christmas lunch.

Yet one can only admire Harry for outdoing his older brother at social tobogganing. The current Duchess of Cambridge comes from a family that made its money from—wait for it—wedding bunting! If her royal wedding wasn’t a plot hatched in the smoke-filled backroom of a bunting warehouse, I’ll eat my top hat. Personally, I couldn’t give a damn who the Windsor boys marry. I remember them from school days as a slightly awkward pair—a dentist and a rural estate agent, perhaps.

What interests Bunky is: What is the purpose of the royal family? It’s clearly not to lead anyone into war, cultural or otherwise, but rather to condense the vapors of patriotism into the soft sludge of democratic despotism. Why else would they crave the approbation of the very powers that would destroy them? Prince Charles has proved a useful idiot for causes ranging from environmentalism to the cultural gray goo of the interfaith movement, like a royalist counterpart to Jeremy Corbyn.

Young Prince Harry—whose nuptials bear down on us with such terrifying determinism—has pinned his colors to the mast of Men’s Mental Health. Those of us who refuse the therapeutic shilling—choosing not to become a mewling man-child, supping at the chemical tit of the National Health Service—are soon branded “toxic.” Toxifying masculinity is an essential plank of the progressive agenda, because men as nature intended them tend to take matters in hand.

As such, who alone in the U.K. has reacted to the industrial-scale pederasty visited on Northern towns by their replacement populations? Why, a wholly toxic umbrella group of football fans called the “Football Lads Alliance.” Needless to say, a pincer movement of the establishment and the left-wing press has shut them down Pretty Damn Quick. The Royal British Legion returned their donations—on the basis that their poppy emblem had no place being displayed on a march against child exploitation—while appropriately named Vice magazine advanced chin-stroking accusations of “ethno-nationalism.” Speaking of football supporters, what of the toxic man who defended the public of London Bridge from being sliced to death in the street? You guessed it: He’s now been forced to apologize for something he said.

And where are the royals in all this, as the nation they claim to love is so publicly despoiled? Leading the charge, quivering with Shakespearean fury? Or bystanding in dutiful silence? Of course, you know the answer already. If royalty can prove so uninterested by the plight of their subjects, then maybe Republicanism is indeed the way forwards? Alone in Western Europe, it is a Republican nation—France—that has planted a standard on liberal values. The French affirm their secularism did not go through such a bloody parturition now to stand alongside the burqa. On motorways and bridges in the west of the country, you can see these arguments laid out: a new point every few kilometers. The codifying of rights in France also proved a stumbling block to LBGT universalism, affirming that—shock horror!—a child has a right to binary parenting! Yet this standard too has now been swept away, in France as in England.

No amount of evidence will get progressives to depart from the social dogmas in which they have invested. Take the case of Elsie Scully-Hicks. Five days after her birth, she was forcibly removed from her natural mother by the state, which also judged that her grandmother would be “unable to cope” with child-rearing. Its infinite wisdom instead handed the baby to a gay couple, one of whom, a year later, beat her to death for crying. Who could have predicted that a diet of—in the immortal words of Sebastian Horsley—“porridge, drugs and buggery” does not a wet nurse make? Or indeed that fast-tracking British residency for hundreds of thousands of exports from the most violent sexual culture on earth might have a deleterious effect on the safety of young women?

Not the politicians or the church, that’s for sure. So how about the damned royal family? Isn’t that what the Leviathan is for? But no. Instead Harry will walk up the aisle on a cloud of ersatz patriotism—while more anonymous victims of progressive doctrines make the same journey on the shoulders of grieving pallbearers. If a progressive is someone insulated from the effects of their own social engineering, then surely none is more insulated than the West’s pampered, progressive royals.

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