Ah, those good old Cape May days… by Jackson D’Catur
I went off the Royals after Queen Vicky. She was a classy lady, that one: tough as old boots and she carried a flatiron hidden in her muff that she would whip out and rattle off a chap’s brow if she thought he was not showing respect.
I was also very fond of Prince Albert, her beloved consort, although I have not forgiven him for persuading me to adopt that particular style of personal piercing he pioneered, and that was for a short while all the rage.
It wasn’t that I was unhappy with the results, just that I was passing a junk yard some months later as the large magnet a working-class fellow was operating from a crane passed close overhead. My feet were off the ground faster than I could say “A pox on you, sirrah!” and I was dangling 30 feet off the ground by my codpiece.
I shall speak no more of the incident, other than to say that I have never been happier to have a pocket knife on me than that day. Nor have I cried so much as an adult, excepting that awful time every few years that my trusty, faithful Yorkshrie Terrier Young Albert (the common name is mere coincidence) passes away, to be carried in state by a dozen black-clad men to the bottom of the garden and lovingly placed in a tiny black marble replica of the Taj Mahal.
Of course I have fought like a lion both for and against various royals: I was initially on the side of King George, then very much against him in this fine nation’s revolutionary spat.
And I was at the head of the mob howling for Marie Antoinette’s head after she told us to go and eat macaroons (later accounts have been garbled: had she really asked us to eat cake I would have calmed the whole thing down, as I have always been easily won over by a nice walnut loaf). And then again I was Robert Bruce’s right-hand man when he drove the hated English from Scotland, in part because he was what every king should be – bold, tall, handsome and whimsically cruel – and in part because I have legs that are crowdstoppers in a kilt, and wanted to be on the side that dressed best. (I let this principle drop in WWII.)
Modern-day royals, though, are a different matter. They need to go the way of the buffalo: hunted, skinned and eaten until they no longer walk the earth. I suppose I would make an exception for Queen Liz of England, as she is very ancient. And would taste stringy.
Yours fondly, my humble servants.