Prince dies, reducing the world’s sexy motherfucker count by one

Prince-When-Doves-CrySmall but perfectly formed, Prince, the quintessential sexy motherfucker has gone from us, taken away by the flu, of all things.

The fucking flu.

Just like in France where a skinny man died of a big disease with a little name, Prince has been borne away by an illness that we dismiss as a passing inconvenience. The disease that killed more people in 1918 than all the casualties of the Great War in the previous four years.

Prince! Can you believe it? That overwhelmingly eccentric, super-sexy genius monarch bestriding music like a diminutive colossus has just died, and by “just died”, I mean exactly that.

He just died of a mundane illness with little or no drama.

It’s not right. He should have crashed a plane. He should have gone down in a shoot-out with evil guitar-wielding funk-mobsters. He should have been electrocuted on stage.

We don’t ask much of our heroes but we ask this: please don’t die of the fucking flu. We love you too much for such drab demises.

Some say a man ain’t happy unless a man truly dies.

Let the doves cry.


Sarah Ferguson Still Making Trouble For Royals After All These Years

So Sarah Ferguson was taking money from rich businessmen who wanted to meet Prince Andrew?

So what?

Good on you, girl!

The British Sunday papers are full of words like ugly and desperate.  Pathetic.  Grubby.  Shoddy.  Lynne Featherstone, equality minister, finds the whole thing upsetting.

You have to admire the sheer hypocrisy of it all.   Here’s Prince Andrew, the descendant of a family of robbers who gained their vast wealth by terrorising all of Europe for a thousand years and who presided over tyrannies well into the twentieth century.  He himself, like his father and grandfather before him, is maintained in luxury by the British taxpayer and accorded a huge degree of public respect based solely on the circumstances of his birth.

Thanks to those circumstances, he’s fourth in line to the thrones of sixteen separate countries.  Like the rest of his family, he has never worked a day in his life.  He has never known hardship.  He has never gone short of anything and never will.  He has never had a single minute’s worry about money and never will, thanks to the generosity of a British government that guarantees all these blessings solely because of his birth.

He currently has a job as a trade representative, also due entirely to the circumstances of his birth, and this job involves travelling around meeting other pampered, privileged people, unelected royalty like himself and fawning politicians who wish they were as unaccountable as he and his family are.

Andrew’s job is to help carve up the world’s resources among the ultra-wealthy, and yet they’re calling Sarah Ferguson grubby?  Just because she asks for a few shillings to introduce these billionaires to a man who gets it all for nothing.