I must admit I was a bit upset at not being named Godfather to Prince George. I mean, I watched the wedding, didn’ I? I bought Pippa’s stupid party cookbook. Well, I googled it, same difference. They said it was ‘not fit for toilet paper’ so I saved my money. I’m a real royalist, love Wills and Harry, waved a flag at the telly during all those dreadful 60th anniversary celebrations last year. Well, the concert was alright, but all that sailing down the River in barges in the rain didn’t excite much. And yet not only was I snubbed in the New Year’s honours list, now this. Someone else named as Godfather to ‘our’ baby.

What I expected for my lifetime’s ‘service to the royalty’ was at least a peerage, if not to be given a vast estate with a castle, farmland and sufficient peasants to run the thing, from whom I can fleece taxes to my heart’s content whilst sitting on some kind of a throne in front of an 85” super hi-def LED monster screen flicking channels, being waited on by butlers and footmen and administering local ‘justice’. Floggings. Imprisonment in my own jail cells, hanging. Ahhhh but its not to be. Not this year anyway.

But the problem is that there’s no more proper peerages available. Even on ebay. And those that are there are floundering. Like Tottenham House. Home of the Savernakes, presided over by the Earl of Cardigan. Who is currently living on jobseeker’s allowance. Presumably, when asked what work he is seeking, would reply: “Lord of the Manor”. Ok, we’ll see what we have…

Life is not like Downton Abbey any longer. Not that I’ve ever seen that programme; I’m a Dowtonphobe. But I know what its like; yer regular ‘upstairs/downstairs’ gig with the rich and pompous up top, the cor-blimeys down below and they only meet in the middle for casual sex, maybe the odd rape and to provide excitement and improve tv ratings.

So poor Cardigan who’s wife left him, who’s kids won’t talk to him, can only be described as Royally Fucked. But probably in much more a literal sense than would apply to others.

I blame inbreeding. For decades the aristocracy looked for ‘suitable mates within their class’ to produce the next in line for the estate, the title and to carry the speech impediments down to future generations. So the Earl dies, long live the Earl, and the government take 40% of the value of the estate in death duties. Ahhh. But we only have the estate. No money. Well ya better sell it then, otherwise you’ll go to prison for tax evasion. Oh. But then how can I live there if sell it, I’ll be homeless. Not our problem, (Lord) sonny, you’ll have to get a job. Oh, what’s a ‘job’??

The aristocracy is crumbling. If it wasn’t for the National Trust all our stately homes would be scooped up by Galliard Homes and converted into brilliant, buy-to-let apartments (guaranteeing 14% yield!!!) or mult-storey car parks.

Sometimes its a blessing to be lower class scum.

 

‘ave an ever so ‘umble Fursday

 

A xxxx