Digested week: Can the monarchy survive the Kate photo fiasco? It probably can
Please make sure you are sitting down before I break this news to you. The Princess of Wales edited a photo of herself and her three children. It is thought she used several shots taken by her husband, a bald man, and sort of mushed them together to make a slightly better one. As a result, millions died.
No, they didn’t. But you would think they had, given the headlines, column inches and social media outrage that has been generated by a story best actually summed up as: “Thing that everyone does was done. By lady with nice hair.”
Can the monarchy survive? It probably can. Can the integrity of photojournalism? It probably can. Can respect for international press agencies endure? If such a thing still exists, yes. A misaligned zip and cardigan cuff are probably not going to be the stuff that brings it down.
I don’t know what to tell you. It’s the biggest story of the week and it runs ALL week. We are officially insane as a country, and by the national madness individuals will surely be driven down the same path. The snake eats itself. Which makes me think that the conspiracy theorists are right. This isn’t in fact the real Kate, returned from her “planned” “abdominal” “surgery”, but Meghan in a Kate skinsuit, back to wreak revenge on us all for exiling her and her prince. It. All. Makes. Sense.
Tuesday
With the world still reeling from the Kate (Meghan!) photo revelations, it was rabbit-punched by the television presenter and current Celebrity Big Brother contestant Fern Britton, who revealed that she does not wear knickers or owt like that (I paraphrase slightly) under her jeans.
I have questions for Fern Britton. I have questions for all ladies who do this. I have questions about chafing. I have questions about hygiene. I have questions, simply put, about whywhywhywhywhy?. But mostly I have questions about chafing. Those questions involve big seams, soft parts and the proximity and alignment thereof. I want answers, and then I want a cost-benefit analysis of what you’re doing. What benefit are you reaping from the decision not to place one gloriously protective layer of cotton between yourself and what is essentially a serrated denim hellscape? So cheap! So easy! So surely saving you several washloads a week?
Listen, this is at least as important as a wonky cardigan cuff, OK? Could we launch an investigation and cultural conversation stat, please?
Wednesday
I’m so sorry but it’s been a week of extraordinary blows and now I must deal you another one. For today it was revealed that vets are expensive. Not only that but it appears that those owned by large, profit-seeking consortiums are often more expensive than small, independent outfits. That they are not always interested in what is best for Fido or Felix but in what is best for the corporate bottom line.
I know. I know. As the owner of two cats whom I love more than life itself (well, one of whom I love more than life itself – the other one and I are in talks) and who has certainly never, with panicked, desperate motions, shovelled cash in the direction of anyone assuring me that an expensive procedure is necessary to keep them from experiencing momentary discomfort, let alone from shuffling off this mortal coil, I am shocked. And as an upstanding member of western capitalist society I am appalled to learn that the profit motive could ever lead to unethical behaviour or any kind of corruption, major or minor. I have a lot of thinking to do now. A lot.
Thursday
As a little blessed light relief from these accumulating traumas comes the news that folk in Winchester are up in arms about the cathedral’s decision to install a £100,000 Jane Austen statue in its Inner Close.
Is their anger over the use of funds they feel should have been distributed among the poor and needy in accordance with good Christian practice? No (it was funded by private donations). Is it an offensive statue in some way? Has the sculptor Martin Jennings put her in a crop top and stood her on a pile of burned Pride and Prejudices in some kind of unfathomable Statement, as artists are so wearily prone to doing? No (she’s standing in full Regency fig by her famous writing table).
They are in fact afeard that it will turn Winchester into “Disneyland-onItchen” as tourists flock to come and take a selfie of themselves with the statue.
What can you say but – no. No it won’t, my pets. It’ll be fine. Austen is buried in the cathedral. No one is going to say “I didn’t wanna see the grave of one of literature’s greatest talents. But a statue? Of her standing up! Touching a smaller statue of her desk? Let’s GO!” Winchester will remain safely distinguishable from Disneyland for many years to come.
Friday
And so, would you credit it, we reach the end of Extremist Week. I’m sorry, did you not know about the government’s plan to leap back into pole position – or any poll position other than the one they currently occupy – by announcing a crackdown, no a real crackdown, grr, yes, on hate speech in public life.
You were probably confused by the apologies of the Tory donor Frank Hester for his reported comments that Diane Abbott made him “want to hate all Black women” and “should be shot”, and the former Conservative deputy chair Lee Anderson’s defection to the Reform party, with an accompanying speech about those who want to “erase our history” and “give our country away”. Perhaps you thought – maybe like Anderson himself – that Extremism Week was a celebratory event, a chance to see how far we could all go. Like a verbal equivalent of The Purge.
No. It was simply reality, gazing into the abyss of the Tory party, shaking its head and murmuring: “Wrong again, boys. Wrong again,” while every satirist in town stared at a blank screen or piece of paper and wondered, not for the first time, what to do now.