Folks, the writing game is a tough gig; it’s not easy coming up with new material each week for anonymous commenters to ridicule. Occasionally someone will ask if I’m still writing this column, and boy, that really makes all the blood, sweat, tears and hair pulling worth it, I can tell you.
Which is why I feel a tiny bit sorry for the Queen at this time of year. I’m sure she puts a lot of effort into her annual Christmas broadcast and occasionally she must wonder who, if anybody, these days is bothering to turn on the tele to hear the latest ‘Windsor Follies’.
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time here in the colonies when the Royal Chrissie address was not to be missed, and people made a point of being home to listen to it and actually dressed up for the occasion.
No, I am not making this stuff up; possibly.
Times have certainly changed. God Save the Queen isn’t played on tele late at night anymore, nor is it sung in schools, and my mother is the only person I know who has a good tea set put aside just in case HRH pops by unexpectedly.
Not that I’d be invited to high tea, because of my opinion about the Royal’s real job, i.e.: to produce heirs, who’ll spend their days passing wind through silk, while their fawning subjects applaud them for simply existing.
Plus, I like to dunk my bikkies, which is a bit common.
Yet, in spite of falling popularity polls, the Queen pushes on regardless and for that I tips me hat to her. Because keeping a stiff upper lip as your empire shrinks and your family are reduced to mere celebrity status, well, that’d be a tough gig too.