Anonymous Millionaire: At The Royal Wedding
The names of the royal couple, and, coincidentally, of seven or eight of my collection of offspring, scattered around this great land like Aston Martins in a world of Hyundais. Not since one of my own weddings has the country seen such a spectacle. And my weddings – well, they are hard to beat. There was the one with the three-hundred-and-forty-three course meal that lasted thirteen days (longer than the marriage!), the one with free plastic surgery given away as a favour to the guests in a tent off to the side (that wife of mine – whoever she was – could have taken better advantage!), and of course the one with nineteen consecutive hours of fireworks (the neighbours weren’t too happy with that one).
My invitation to the Royal Wedding somehow lost in the mail, I decided to risk the stench of commoner and celebrate with the masses, my staff carrying me on their shoulders into Trafalgar Square to watch the action on the tiny screens, I could have let them borrow one from the theatre in my maid’s quarters. Imagine, a screen that small wouldn’t even belong in my bathroom. I watch horror movies on the toilet on screens larger than that.
Nevertheless, I’d been preparing for the festivities for months, commissioning a Union Jack that my butler could be proud to wave on my behalf. Made from the skin of deceased members of the Royal Family (I got a great deal on King George VI’s face), and dyed blue with their blood, I attached my flag to the arm of Prince Henry, Duke of Gloucester (another terrific deal – those Royal estate sales are not to be missed) and swung it proud as I watched Kate walk down the aisle.
Along with the flag, I knew I needed to bring something to eat – the wedding had, of course, thrown a wrench into my usual schedule, Friday lunch with the Queen somehow canceled as if this should take precedence. And a sad sandwich from the Pret tent – they don’t even cut off the crusts! – would of course never do. Thankfully, I’d been forcing my social secretary to call the Mandarin Oriental every fifteen minutes for the past four months until I was finally able to get a reservation at Heston Blumenthal’s Dinner. I sent my manservant to order the tasting menu, and discreetly pack all of the food in takeaway boxes so I could save it for exactly an occasion like this. So as I watched William open his mouth to say, “I will,” I opened my month-old container of hay-smoked mackerel and dug in, much to the envy of the sad and ugly who stood all around me holding their own flags. Shameful.
But I could barely contain my disappointment as I eyed the images of the crowd in Westminster Abbey. People I could buy and sell. People I have bought and sold. And the hats! I have hats that wear nicer hats than some of what I saw. Each of my hats gets three hats of its own, so that they never feel underdressed. So for these women to wear one hat and think it was enough was absolutely astonishing. What has happened to fashion in this country? The least some of those women could have done was sacrifice themselves so that I could have been offered a seat at the Abbey. A wedding is no place for a woman wearing just one hat.
Alas, after forty-five seconds watching the spectacle in public, having to peer over the shoulders of the middle class and look into the eyes of people who drive their own cars, I decided I had enough. It was time for Plan B. Like I always say, “if you can’t join ‘em, beat ‘em.”
And so it was back to my castle and into my Hall of Green, the vast hall I had painted to look exactly like a park, even down to the statues of pigeons and carefully manicured ‘lawn’ made from marmoset fur dyed the brightest shade of green. I set up my own JumboTron screen – larger than any that could even fit in tiny Trafalgar Square – waved my flag, and enjoyed a traditional Royal Feast of Queen’s eyes and King’s kidneys. I even reluctantly cheered as William gave Kate that first public kiss – a kiss that should have been mine if only the Prince had responded to my advances back when I tried to seduce my way into the monarchy. Oh, Prince William, you are a stronger man than I if you could resist my charms.
But that’s a story for another day. Today, it’s all about having risked my life to spend three quarters of a minute with poor people, and trying to steal a Royal Horse. So close. If I’d had thirty more seconds to inject the sedative and cart him away, that horse would have been the perfect addition to my collection of sedated Royal Animals. Alas, the next Royal Wedding will be even greater—because it will take place after I capture the crown for myself. Again, another story, for another day. Until then.