The Royal Show...

I know we are a monarchy of sorts but honestly, why oh why do we put up with the Royal Show? Oh, I know it provides entertainment for old ladies, the French, Girl Guides, and, of course, the Americans and it does sell a lot of papers and magazines, but really? It was all very fine in the fifties where King and Country was the general opinion, nay duty, of accountants and millworkers everywhere after the Second World War, rationing and prefabs, and, of course, standing up in cinemas when the National Anthem was played and even standing up when the telly closed down for the night (watch the dot) was normal behaviour (normal? standing up to a crumby piece of music that you don't know most the words to is normal? It's not a bloody Elton John concert - thank God!). But just what are we getting for our £1.24 per year per every man, woman, and child as loyal subjects?

Even into the swinging kinky boot sixties all that Royal worship was still going strong (good old (younger) Anne, and that 'show us your cleavage and pass us a fag' Margaret - the naughty beehived minx). But the gloomy seventies began to see things start to slip. If it wasn't for the gin swigging, gambling-addicted Queen Mother (Gawd larv her pale blue frocks and that sweet, vacant, half-pissed smile), I think a coup of one type or another could have been just around the corner even back then in the Winter of Discontent.

The Queen's boys, Charles, Andrew, and that bloody Edward luvvy were hardly inspiring as we moved on with divorces, affairs, Duran Duran, roller skating princesses, and all that other hardly talked about other stuff (bonky wonky). And then all of a sudden it was 1992 and Annus Horribilis, not that anyone understood what that meant dearest Queenie (was it something about a horrible bum? - that'll be Fergie too then. I don't know because by then nobody was bothering with Latin). But in case any of you had forgotten (as I had) what all the fuss was about, here's a reminder.

• Separation of Prince Andrew, from that bloody Fergie parasite (19 March).
• Divorce of horsey Anne from stiff backboned Captain Mark Phillips - 23 April.
• Death of Prince Albrecht of Hohenlohe-Langenburg - 23 April (Who? I don't remember that one but what a Dayus Horribilis the 23rd must have been).
• Publication of Saint Diana's tell-all book Diana: Her True Story, revealing the 'problems' in her marriage and Charlie's affair with Camilla Parker Bowles (aka that trollop!) in the Sunday Times - 7 June 1992.
• Publication of photographs of that raunchy impish redhead sunbathing topless with her friend, John Bryan - 20 August.
• Publication of intimate conversations between the Princess of Wales and James Gilbey from a tape recording of their phone calls - 24 August.
• The fire in Windsor Castle - 20 November.
• Separation of the Prince and Princess of Wales - December.

He haw, that year was better than Cora and Stenders combined with a good shot of Emmerdale thrown in for good measure for Farmer Charlie (it didn't win Best Soap in the National TV Awards though). Of course, none of it was a problem - the whitewash was splashed by the gallon, rules and laws were changed, and the bottomless pit that is the pocket of Her Majesty's loyal subjects was applied (God Save Our Greedy Queen. Long live our nobbling Queen).

The biggest change came with the death (murder some conspiracy theorists say) of the Queen of Hearts in 1997. The other Queen didn't much care (it seemed) and Phil the Greek was rumoured to have done the Greek grudge thing (I iz gonna make you a kebab you can no refusi) and got MI5 to deliver the deathly deed. The queen almost lost the public with that one, but of course, she had the fallback position of using Harry and Wills to tug at the country's heartstrings as they slow-stepped to their mother's funeral and the Royal brood survived. Clever to use two motherless semi-orphan boys to reform her very expensive royal posse into a new format (nice one Lizzie!).

It worked for a while, but the shit continued like shit in any family does with Nazi fancy dresses, unsuitable girlfriends, drunkenness, increasing baldness, and simple general debauchery (and that's just Phil the Greek). More recently Andrew was outed as a potential paedo, Charles built upon his bumbling idiocy and reached a new idiocy level, Philippos was branded a dangerous and senile driver, and Anne's stoic stoicism and grumpiness was lampooned in comedy shows that in the past would not have been made, let alone watched and laughed at by everyone (off with their heads, says Anne).

To top it all, we have Harry and Meghan wanting to be treated like Royals whilst not acting like royals, but demanding privileges that nobody on this planet can expect to get for free (like twenty million quids worth of protection a year and their own Royal brand). Yes, he's the (piss it against the wall) artist formally known as Prince (to use the words of that great wit Bonnie Bon Boyo Jovi).

Now I know that by now some of you Royalist sympathisers will be muttering and swearing about me under your breath (or on top of it for some). But all of this is fact and not me bitchily making things up (I'll leave that to the Royals who never stop squabbling and lying it seems). Isn't it time to say enough? In any other family, some of these actions would have led to prison, ridicule, and disgust, whilst we (the loyal British public) keep throwing money at this bunch of privileged, ungrateful arses.

All I can say is that it's a lot of dosh to spend on a few Royal weddings every decade or so, a Queen's speech or two, that yearly Christmas speech nobody listens to any more, and... Well, nothing else at all really.

Here ends The Royal (shit) Show for today. Terrible bathing costume by the way. That should get me sent to The Tower.