Monarchists, You Need to See a Shrink.
News story: Saturday, September 24, 2016
During a royal visit to British Columbia, the prime minister of Canada, Justin Trudeau, squatted down on the airport runway to acknowledge the young son of Britain’s Prince William and his wife Kate Middleton, the Duchess of Cambridge. The little boy turned away from Trudeau’s high-five and refused any contact with the prime minister.
Yes, Britain’s Prince George who so rudely snubbed my Prime Minster Justin Trudeau is only three years old. But what a spoiled little snot that toddler is!
The boy’s every royal moment has been, since birth, bathed in disdain. English royalty’s is a sneering hauteur, a condescending haughtiness that queens and kings do better than any humans on earth. The royals are masters of disdain. From the first time this snooty princeling was nanny-deposited in his bassinet, on a downy pillow of point d'Alençon lace with gauzy cradle curtains to protect his tiny person from being breathed on by peasants, this kid knew he was the Almighty’s gift to waiting humanity.
Did you know that Prince George’s bassinet was woven of exquisite wickerwork by blind Anglican nuns on a small island in the River Thames. Okay, I’m exaggerating. But only a little bit.
Not one farthing of the obscene wealth of the Windsor family was earned. It is pelf, ill-gotten gain. The Queen of England’s wealth reflects generations of boodle taken from the earnings and scanty wages and harvests of innumberable farm labourers. The royal family owns whole counties of Britain, while children starve in central London.
Wee Georgie has been cossetted by nannies, pampered by servile housemaids, abject footmen, fondled and dandled by a clustering circus of cringers, stooped brown-nosers, tongue-weary lickspittles, low-born lackeys, unwashed flunkies, ignoble minions, purse-lipped valets, scuttlers and butlers: a vast legion of born toadies and anus-hungry asskissers who roam palaces seeking moments when they may abase themselves before royal personages.
Exterior to the velvet chambers of royalty teem in adoring crowds the natural-born slaves who are monarchists. They want to bow down, scrape and obey in subservience kings and queens. Crowds of creepy Canadian monarchists, some tugging their forelocks as imperial persons passed by, thronged every venue at which Prince William and his fecund bride appeared.
So far little Prince George’s only throne is his hoity-toity. But just imagine the lad’s curling lip if he reaches manhood.
Monarchists are essentially “fans.” Overidentification by the fan with the adored star or royal potentate has elements that are pathological. Anyone acquainted with the literature of psychiatric sociology knows that fandom is toxic. Most fans are antisocial loners who have failed as whole persons. They have no life, few friends, often no compelling reason to get up in the morning, so they litter their forlorn existence with scrapbooks full of pictures of Tom Cruise or sequential photo-histories of Justin Bieber’s haircuts. Obsession and hysteria are the loathsome twins who accompany most fans through a dreary and protracted continuance of being almost alive.
The cliché cry “Get a life!” seems appropriate. Instead, O Fans, I beseech you, seek vivid interaction with responsive fellow beings; don’t slouch in the dank grot of a dark apartment, rubbing your crotch as you gaze stunned at videoclips of some illiterate floozy’s breasts or the dick-wagging of some brainless braggart rippling his pectoral muscles while he disguises the stark fact that he has the I.Q. of a shucked mollusc.
Britain used to have a pubic official named The Master of Lunacy, who decreed whether a gibbering transgressor should be hauled off to an asylum such as Bedlam. In the lamentable absence of a lunacy master, fandom and undue dwelling on royalty ought to be listed in the DSM-5, the latest edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, published every now and then by the American Psychiatric Association.
As for little Prince George ─ that sniffish child needs a light pat on the bum and a reminder that persons other than those in a royal household exist too.