Royal Rumble

Well, I was supposed to blog about the Royal Wedding yoinks ago, but I was also supposed to keep blogging over Easter. I failed to accomplish either of these things.  Also top of my failure list is the lack of clear political agenda, or mention of more interesting topics, more academic research or talking about poor marginalized activists who were harrassed and banned from London. Shocker! As if every time something like this happens they'd forgotten that the police truly hated them and were somewhat surprised to discover they weren't given a free shot at disrupting the most important media event in recent history. It galls me. How can you possibly be a political activist and keep being constantly surprised at the way you are treated? An Anarchist Goldfish would have a longer memory and a better perspective. Anyway, without further ado, here we go.

You saw it. Even if you tried to avoid it, or didn't turn on any electrical appliance for a full day, you heard about it. The Royal Wedding, where two rich people come together in the puppet church they created to exchange a vow that they may or may not keep, and to bring happiness to the realm. Did you see her dress? Her hair? So perfect. And when they kissed, I almost died from exuberance. She floated on a nimbus of perfection, her feet not touching the ground because she was so unbelievably crystal and pure.

Yes, even people like me, who tried to avoid the Royal Wedding ended up getting plastered with it like a runty kid in a Sports Hall cream-pie dodgeball game. It was everywhere. It was in my eyes. The goggles, they do nothing.

I was not in favour.

I wish to dispense remarkably quickly with the sickening notion that two rich twats smooching on a balcony can suddenly make everything better. You know what, it can't. Wake up tomorrow and it'll still be a horrendous world, so why bother watching other people be happy? Rich and privileged people, who can afford to eat food more expensive than your house. People who won't ever even know what it's like to be you.

And in a particular I-feel-strongly-about-this-so-you're-going-to-have-to-forgive-me way, Royalists are idiots.

Yes. But you knew that. You saw the parade of buffoons who camped overnight on a street so that they could watch a car go past? Painted faces and union jacks, little buns and everyone screaming God Save the Queen? Sickening. Absolutely sickening. We're supposed to human beings, for gods sake. They were like animals. Animals, I tell you.

So why can't I just let people get on with it, and let the Royal couple be happy? Why am I such a stick in the mud? Oh Stevie, you old crazy, why do you have to be so anti-happiness. Can't everyone just have a bit of fun, wave a flag and smile?

No, basically, they can't. Shape up, you delinquents. I refuse, flatly, on principle and out of self respect, to fall down in abject worship of two people who have led exceptionally wealthy and charmed lives. I would not hesitate to question the notion that some people believe William's shit cures cancer, or that the sun actually shines from Kate Middleton's arse.

This is not a proud moment, nor is it a bit of fun. If the television did streaming news on every channel that, sometime today, I was due to cook a ready-meal in my underwear before scratching my balls, people would actually kick off. In fact, they would probably find out where I was and gouge me to death with a barbecue fork than let it run for longer than a few minutes.

So why is everything, everywhere, about them all day? The media attention was frenzied and invasive to the point of almost being ghoulish, where you're forced to wonder vaguely if they've started drawing up plans for a Kate Middleton obituary in case the constant exposure drives the new princess to suicide. They'd love that. And so would you lot, secretly. A massive ourpouring of grief. Elton John tributes. Mile long funeral processions and everyone who never met her wondering how they can possibly continue to live without her.

There wasn't even any room for conscientious objectors to opt out. Why should we care about what they're doing? What, do we still have a Monarchy? Are they still better than us? So much better than us, that we need to do all this?

I think I screamed a howl of pure frustration at some point.

It was beyond a celebration, it was a carnival. A carnival of self degradation and of failure. Failure for us, as a species, to get past even the simplest outdated notions of tribal privilege. You might as well enjoy your wedding, you fawning sycophantic clowns. You did pay for it, after all.