I’m disappointed Prince Will is marrying a commoner. Don’t get me wrong, I believe Kate is a fine young woman. Last year I spent considerable time examining photos of the comely lass. Thanks to an enterprising photographer, I was able to take extensive measure of her almost naked body. Although she doesn’t have the Hanoverian hips of Queen Betty, I believe they are wide enough to handle child birth and bless Britain with future expenses. She does not appear to be the typical Saxe-Coburg-Gotha-Windsor breeder, per say. It is impossible to match Queen Vicky in that respect. There was good reason Al wore nothing but a silk robe in private chambers. As the royal stud, he was always on duty to service the insatiable Vicky. Had Viagra been available it is very likely that the frail German would have died from nervous exhaustion well before the age of forty two.
Call me a romantic but I miss the old days when royal marriages were arranged. Sometimes a prince lucked out and sometimes he was stuck with a grotesque Hapsburg. The practice of royals choosing their mates is bullocks. There was noble self-sacrifice in an heir bravely enduring sexual congress with a chinless hunchback. It drew a nation together. Even the lowest manure shoveler could take comfort in the fact that his bed mate didn’t frighten horses.
There are young women from ancient European principalities available. They haunt the Italian Riviera, running up credit card bills and begging Vanity Fair for photo shoots. Not only do they have the proper bloodline but Prince Will would never have to worry that his Princess was eating cranberry poached pears with a fish fork. The thought of such table atrocities has me ringing Fruity for more sherry.
