Stoic Danes are royal pain
DENMARK just got a new king. You don’t care. I don’t care. The Swiss only care about clocks and chocolates. The Danes maybe care because what else they got to talk about. For me anything Danish goes with coffee.
This king, Frederik, 55, once trained with our SEAL team, who possibly called him Freddie. Ambassador Edward Elson, Clinton’s former envoy to Copenhagen, said those majesties get mostly christened Frederik.
Anyway, ’09 I met him when he was prince. Pre-king. I reported the incident then. I reprise it now because the guy’s a king. And you’ll see why I reprise it. Ready?
Visiting NYC a while back this rich, regal freebee royal made like a Hamptons share cheapo. He and the missus — now queen — borrowed some local apartment. I wouldn’t care if they made a B&B out of the aquarium, but the flat they commandeered was NEXT DOOR TO ME! I didn’t know. And nobody’d informed me.
So, day they arrive I’m home. Wearing some usual shmatta decorated with permanent gravy stains. Hair straight from sleep. Face undone. Smeared leftover mascara still left over. And barefoot. Plus, my adored Yorkie, 5 pounds of pure pain in the ass, is in my arm. The other hand schlepping a large plastic garbage bag to deposit in the hallway’s trash bin.
Well, hello there
Casually, I throw open the door — and step out. I am face-to-face, inches from three tall royal bodies. Gulliver-size. Ramrod erect, frozen, standing there and staring at me, a total apparition, in horror. Him, Her and an aide. All dressed like extras in some Ava DuVernay drama set in the 1700s. Their faces had less mobility than those at Mount Rushmore. Nobody even whispered, “Nice doggie.”
He plus Mary, the now-queen, in full embroidered hoop skirt ballgown. Jewels in places you can’t even reach. Hair a la Marie Antoinette (before she lost that head). He, full dress uniform. Epaulets. Medals. Gold braid. Big belt buckle. And a SWORD at his side. A SWORD! Manhattan apartment building and a SWORD. OK, NYC may have some crime, but a sword?!
It’s a small hallway. Their aide in an equal costume ensemble. Awaiting an elevator, the trio stood a tiara away from me. Nobody spoke. They stared. Ramrod stiff. Stood frozen awaiting the elevator. Not neighborly, I did not invite them in for coffee and bagels.
Forget the slightly damp dog, my job was to lose the garbage bag. I didn’t know whothehell they were and why they were there. I figured maybe there’s a gala somewhere that nobody invited me to.
Oh, there’s more
That’s Part 1 of the story. Part 2: Shortly later I’m in Denmark.
Copenhagen. And the same night of my arrival this same prince is throwing some other gala. So obviously that’s what he does. His career is parties. My friends who were attending said they’d get me invited. Forget it! NO! HRH didn’t even want me in his same country. Zero invite for me. And no subsequent follow-up invitation offered.
Meanwhile, he is right now comfy in the Amalienborg Palace with horse-drawn carriages, a motorcade, a balcony to wave from plus this queen whom he met at a bar in Sydney — and you can’t get any regal-er than that.
The country’s loving him and saying what an easygoing, sportsloving, climate-friendly, extremely popular monarch he is.
Yeah. Great. OK. I am not one to invoke the “Something’s rotten in Denmark” quote — but next time this easygoing hotshot royal sponges on our Big Apple let him unload some kroner for a cheapo hotel room. This way my trash and my dog can be left alone — or he can invite me to his party when in my American designer shmatta I’m dressed better than his missus.