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Trying hard to look like a suburban couple, mom and pop brought baby George home from the hospital.
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Note—Perusing the archives, I came across this post from
five years ago, July 23, 2013.
Ordinarily, a post like this linked to a news item probably would not be recycled. But recent events including the hoopla over a
Royal wedding, more bouncing babes, and a literal fancy pants christening have
demonstrated that the fawning attention lavished on the Royals has only
intensified. Besides, I was in
particularly high snark mode when this was posted.
Forget all of those al
Qaeda big wigs, the ones the White House bragged about when originally
bagged, who were busted out of Abu Ghraib Prison in a made-in-Hollywood rescue operation. Forget about a mere Pope swarmed by crowds in Rio de Janerio in what looked like an old
Fiat from a seedy car rental outfit. Forget poor Detroit, its bones about to be picked clean and sold to the highest bidder to be ground up for chicken feed. Forget it all.
Apparently the only
thing of importance that happened on Monday was that Mrs. Mountbatten, an elderly
World War II veteran (truck driver) living on the public doll was presented a fine baby great grandson.
OK, I get it that the old
gal styles herself as Queen Elizabeth
the Second, by the Grace of God Queen of this Realm and of Her other Realms and
Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. She’s held a steady sinecure she will not give up since 1953; likes matching pastel broad brimmed hats, suits, and purses; and is awfully fond
of Corgis.
The baby’s mum is
a pretty and pleasant young woman
out of central casting named Kate
who is hitched to a balding gent who might get his Grandmother’s job if she would
ever do the decent thing and pack it in
and giver her aging son a crack at it
first. Then, sometime near the dawning of the 22nd Century if everyone lives as long as the old woman—whose own mother lasted until she was 101—the
unsuspecting newborn might get it in
turn.
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Assorted Royals doing what they do best--pose. Ask the gent's how they earned all of those medals, I dare you.
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Some Brits are
reportedly excited that the Hanover/Windsor
Dynasty is secure for generations. These Brits style themselves monarchists, or in the opinion of many members of the
embarrassingly lower classes, Twits.
On this side of the
ocean, where we fought to wars to
get rid of those parasites and keep
them out, you would think that the birth would be of no particular interest. You would be wrong. Apparently huge swaths of the tabloid purchasing
American public, including those who
grab their news from the wire racks
at Wal-Mart while dressed in leopard print outfits six sizes
too small, love the Royal family as much as the Kardasians and Honey Boo-Boo
rolled into one. So do generations of young girls infected at
birth with Disneyprincesitis, an
incurable affliction.
With a keen eye for
their core demographic, the American
media went all out with coverage
of the birth, which consisted mostly of pictures
of crowds outside a rather run-down looking hospital building, yammering British talking heads, and frequent clips of the baby’s dead grandmother. And no one could go more than three minutes
without breathlessly reporting that the babe is The Future King of England.
Meaning no
ill will to the little nipper,
that is a hell of a thing to wish on any
kid. Better he should grow up to muck out sewers, or in
deference to the family tradition of
government employment, be a junior
clerk in a minor ministry.
When I think of the future King of England, I don’t think of
current Prince in Waiting or baby’s
father, a noted model of comic opera
uniforms. I think of an old song my Wobbly pals and I used to sing
well after midnight when the table at
Glascott’s Groggery in Chicago was strewn with empty pitchers of beers and littered with shot glasses.
As the hour of closing neared,
our throats raw from hours of singing
old Union ballads, Irish Rebel songs, anarchist ditties, and obscure
folk songs, someone would invariable
start the following song, which we would bellow loudly enough to rattle the windows at Buckingham Palace. It went
like this.
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Although William, Duke of Normandy who knocked off the local monarch in 1066 was sometimes called The Bastard King for his questionable lineage, the song seems most closely to describe Edward III of England and Philip V of France who engaged in a dust-up over the French throne called the Hundred Years War. Here Edward is making kissy face with Philip V's father Philip IV. Who queen Hortense was is anybody's guess.
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Bastard King of England
Sung to the tune of The Irish Washerwoman
Oh, the minstrels sing of an English King
Of many long years ago,
He ruled his land with an iron hand,
Though his mind was weak and slow.
He loved to hunt the royal stag,
Around the royal wood,
But better by far he loved to sit,
And pound the royal pud.
Chorus
He was lousy and dirty and covered in fleas,
The hair on his balls hung down to his knees,
And he had his women in twos and threes.
God bless the Bastard King of England.
Now the Queen of Spain was an amorous Jane,
And a sprightly wench was she,
She longed to fool with the royal tool,
From far across the sea.
So she sent a royal message,
With a royal messenger,
To invite the King of England down,
To spend the night with her.
Chorus
Now ‘ol’ Philip of France he heard by chance,
Within his royal court,
And he swore, “She loves my rival best,
Because my tool is short,”
So he hurried off to Spain,
Where he did the deed again,
To give the Queen a dose of clap,
To pass it on to the Bastard King of England.
Chorus
When news of this foul deed was heard,
Within the royal halls,
The King he swore by the royal whore,
He’d have to Frenchman's balls.
He offered half the royal purse,
And a piece of the Queen Hortense,
To any British subject,
Who could do the King of France.
Chorus
So the noble Duke of Middlesex,
He took himself to France,
He swore he was a fairy,
So the king let drop his pants,
Then on Philip’s dong he slipped a throng,
Leaped on his horse and galloped along,
Dragging the Frenchman back,
To merry old England.
Chorus
When the returned to London town,
Within fair England’s shores,
Because of the ride King Philip’s pride,
Was stretched a yard or more.
And all the whores in silken drawers,
Came down to London town,
And shouted round the battlements,
“To hell with the British Crown.”
Chorus
And Philip alone usurped the throne,
His scepter was his royal bone,
With which he ditched the Bastard King of England.
Chorus
Well, just maybe a little historical error crept into the song. But we liked
its spirit. Consider it yer lullaby, kid.
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