The Jubbly is over. The London rain has turned the once-proud streamers festooned about the city into a meaningless pulp, and the tea in long-forgotten saucers has gone bitter. The shopkeeps of Windsor have marked down their merchandise, and Prince Louis, known better by his Christian name Wombat the Younger, is likely meeting with a behavioral psychologist at nursery school. Chav-type revelers have pissed themselves in the street, fallen over, and can’t get up, but don’t worry — they’re well enough to text their bosses that they’ll be a few hours late to work tomorrow. And the balcony at Kensington Palace, same as it was since 1703, is Queenless once again.
What a comedown.
And the Queen, the Supreme Governor of the Church of England, is thanking her fucking Anglican god that she’ll never have to be in public again.
Really, it was a lot to ask of a woman plagued by mysterious but dire-sounding chronic “mobility issues.” On Thursday, she trooped the hell out of the colour in a fab periwinkle. Her expression is one of anticipatory delight at being dead, reunited with her hunky Greek prince and Porchey in telestial Balmoral. In her sunnies, the future looks bright. Just four more days, she tells herself.
Though she pulled out of her Thanksgiving ceremony, she did make an appearance later in Windsor that day to show off her new ball. Her facial expression to the fellow in the red tights screams, “Yeah, I know you’re wondering how I got it so round” and also, “I will soon be looking down at the orb-like Earth from my perch at the Anglican Governor’s Mansion in the sky. Only 3.5 more days.”
Even executives of outer realms get distracted thinkin’ ‘bout boys, however. Ding ding ding, is that an even newer toy boy alert in the form of this Beaconmaster named Bruno Peak? Did she ditch her cousin Edward for this young Rod Stewart type? OK mama, tell me about his staghorn one more time before returning to your chambers.
Though she regrettably RSVPed “no, thenks” to the Party at the Palace, she had no choice but to invite Paddington Bear into her state apartments for tea.
Her manners are impeccable, but you can tell that this little imp is testing her patience. She just wants him to leave so she can go watch Graham Norton.
She didn’t miss much by sleeping through the concert, by the way. Andrew Lloyd Weber’s and Lin Manuel Miranda’s much-hyped collaborative Jubbly Anthem was nothing more than a genial Borscht Belt-style piano ditty that took all of 60 seconds to slog through.
At the big Jubilee Platinum Pageant on Sunday, the Queen thought she could fool us by sending a hologram in her stead so that she could have a secret rendezvous with a horse. But something was off… she looked fresh-faced. Suspiciously so. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Is the secret to her youthfulness plenty of water and sleep, or is it Botox and fillers and dermatologists on retainer?
We saw Queenie one more time from afar on her beloved freaking balcony with a bunch of parasitic flunkey yes men. She wants to die. They won’t let her.
I never want to put Lil through this again. She put the work in, and on this website or in person, you will never again see me requesting that she make an appearance somewhere, even if I really, really want to see her on a lawn chair at the Palace of Holyroodhouse garden party hosted by our mutual dear friend, the Lord of Dreams of Holyroodhouse. You’ve done good, kid. Feel free to die now.