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 Carpenters In The Forehead/ Ah! The Glory Of Royalty
Several news stories in the recent past have reminded me of how enchanted we are by that mythic love of days-of-yore: royal blood lines that yield princes and princesses, kings and queens, sure to bring a little thrill running down our spines as we regale at the pomp(osity?) of God’s chosen. A bit of vicarious peeping into the lives of rich and famous royalty lifts us, at least temporarily, out of the doldrums of our mundane existence, certainly well worth the pleasure we gain from admiration-at-a-distance.
Thus it is that we learn how monetarily inconsequential it is for the good people of England to maintain their Queen Mother in her accustomed role as a symbol of their long-gone empire, for it turns out that it comes to only a measly dollar per year per royal subject. Of course, that still amounts to a none-too-paltry $58 million, an amount that most blue-bloods would naturally consider barely scraping by. You just can’t imagine the difficulty and hardship in paying the salaries of a full-time staff of 319, as well as maintaining five royal palaces.
It’s refreshing to know that the Queen, owner of racehorses herself, is still out and about in the world, checking out the ponies in Toronto, en route to deliver a rousing speech at the United Nations on July 6. Three cheers for icon-worshiping and a genetic guarantee of entitlement. I’m already feeling warm and fuzzy all over.
(photo from Reuters Pictures)
No big deal, however, when stacked up against my favorite royalty-gawking activity: finding out the latest dirt on a man after my own heart, the Prince of Monaco. The latest in a dynasty dating back from the end of the 13th century, Prince Albert rules over a small piece of real estate that carries an over-sized wallop. Smaller than Central Park in NYC, its 33,000 inhabitants are mostly foreign, rich, and pleased as punch to be living in a playboy tax-haven. Think Formula One races, casinos galore, and skimpy bikinis. The Good Prince has recently announced his up-coming wedding to a glamour-queen and previously competitive swimmer from South Africa who is twenty years his junior and a constant companion-joined-to-his-elbow at all big-wig events since moving to the principality in 2006. An escort-of-dubious-duties and a trophy-wife-in-training, all in preparation for the stressful life of a future Princess; what better combination could the admiring world ask for?
(photo from Lionel Cironneau-Associated Press)
Now we can all rid our feeble minds of those rumors of “maybe he’s gay,” and who really gives a rat’s tail that the Prince, His Serene Highness, has fathered two illegitimate children? Mistresses are simply an accepted part of the European mind-set, and those urchins are nothing but outcasts with little worth, especially given that they are legally shut out of the line of inheritance and the succession to the throne.
Monaco, ensconced as a member of the United Nations in 1993, has full voting rights, and holds the distinction of being the second-smallest member of that august body. (In case you didn’t know, the smallest geographic entity to be recognized as a member is that wonderful nation-state, the Vatican. But more on that absurd reality in a later column.)
Thus, I hope and pray to the paparazzi-gods above that Prince Albert (with his woman in tow) is in attendance at the gala speech to be given by his fellow-eminence, endearingly listened to by all the other potentates of the world. Royalty reigns supreme, and we just can’t seem to get enough of their each and every utterance.
Long live our tabloids and the latest scoops we anxiously await: the thought of all this excitement taking place right here on our own shores is dangerously close to being more than my heart can bear.
Anyone care to join me on a jaunt to E. 42nd Street in Manhattan a few hours hence?
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