Where were the fucking jewels? The earrings, necklaces, bandeaus, cuffs, chandeliers, girandoles, lattices, and bibs that drip from every Mountbatten-Windsor bone and appendage on a state occasion? Am I the only one who couldn’t stomach the complete absence of stomachers?
This paucity of precious and semi-precious stones has me questioning the validity of the Monarchy. How are we to recognize who is truly royal without these emblems? There wasn’t even a single piece from the Queen’s exclusive collection of the Precious! Get Me Some Chicken! line of costume jewelry.
Meghan’s ascetic simplicity was striking. She could have been equally at home taking vows of poverty in a nunnery. Granted, it would be in a small Order whose only other member is Audrey Hepburn. Sister Luke meets Sister Duke.
(A brief aside on my previously stated love for Miss Hepburn. To further support claims of her greatness, I offer up a clip I recently found of her presenting an Oscar to Rex Harrison.
The substance of what she does is not deep. It’s actually kind of childish. Easily mimiced, in others it comes across as contrived. In her it seems authentic. If she is not being genuine, she’s a much better actress than she’s ever been credited for. I find her every move mesmerizing.)
The lack of serious gems coupled with other changes like allowing divorce in the family make it seem like the British Monarchy is moving at bullet speed out of the 19th Century. I can’t stand the pace, I feel so left out. It makes me question my very existence.
The low point of the Wedding had to be the minister’s sermon. Although we’re never supposed to admit embarrassment at being American, Old Glory, pass the ammunition and all of that, his cheap theatrics belonged on a used car lot. Not in a serious discussion on the purpose of life.
His huckster antics are endemic to all US religions. Why aren’t these pompous fools exposed for the frauds they are? I was onto them by the age of 10. Their schtick became my schtick earning me high approval ratings with my audience (my family.) It was with great dismay that I later learned people do take these clowns seriously.
The other misstep of the nuptials was the failure to record the Duchess of Sussex’s initial curtsy to the Queen. Apparently the single camera in the Chapel went wide-angle from the ceiling just at the moment Meghan took a simulated knee. We may never truly know her symbolic worthiness.
Had it been me there, the gesture would have been so severe no one could ever question my conviction. I would have pancaked out a la Audrey in front of Her Majesty leaving no doubts about my obeisance to the crown.
In a way I felt like I was there. The image of the day was of the Page Boy who had so much fun with his twin brother dutifully collecting Meghan’s train as she ascended the West Stairs. When they reached the top and took their first steps into the nave, trumpets blared the opening notes of the fanfare. The child was consumed with such ecstasy at the sound he could barely contain himself.
If that kid doesn’t turn out to be a queen my days on earth deserve to be numbered. It would mean my personal gaydar is so out of whack I no longer have the necessary tools it takes for longterm survival in modern life.