Every once in a while, Polly Toynbee manages to spring a surprise on bloggers and come up with something that’s really rather good…
Now Lily Allen is to join Sir Elton John and the rest at Wembley stadium for Diana’s birthday concert. But there is something creepy about celebrating the 10th anniversary of her gruesome life and death.
Meanwhile, the interminable and ill-fated inquest into her unmysterious end staggers on like Jarndyce v Jarndyce, costing God knows what, its mountainous paperwork and thousands of legal hours destined to show that she was indeed killed in a crash by her lover’s drunken chauffeur.
What is being celebrated? The bulimic life of a sad neurotic who was abandoned by her mother to a hopeless father and a step-mother from hell. Far too young and silly, she made the awful decision to marry a much older, selfish Prince who was under instruction to deliver the requisite heir and a spare.
She was beautiful, spoiled and brainless. She could have brought down the monarchy, but only wanted the crown to skip to her son. It is a true tragedy for children to lose their mother, but that doesn’t make her a national tragic heroine. Her wish to be “Queen of Hearts” in her Panorama interview was a toe-curling insight into a celebrity who believed her own hype.
It took the genius and charm of Helen Mirren to rescue the royal fiasco of her death and re-invent it as an entirely new national myth to warm the people to their sour and unmotherly Queen.
How must the palace feel, ten years after? Blessed relief and no doubt only too glad to party, if that’s what the princes want. The royals must ask themselves daily where Diana would be at 46, in what trouble, giving what interviews, spending what fortunes on grooming, with more men of the Dodi and James Hewitt variety?
Diana nearly cooked the monarchy’s goose – though it would have been a constitutional irony if the crown had fallen over a public spasm of celebrity worship of the very kind the monarchy thrives on. Her death marks a brief moment when it was just possible the whole absurdity might have come tottering down. No wonder the palace are all celebrating their survival.
Nothing much to disagree with there, although I will say that I think that the concert being held at Wembley Stadium is an absolutely brilliant idea…
What better way to completely fuck up any residual shreds of dignity, mystique and ‘cool’ that might still surround the neurotic clothes-horse and her over-privileged fuckwit offspring than by holding a concert with a line up that reflects her ‘taste’ in music (and that of her sons) that consists, so far, of…
- Elton John
- Bryan Ferry
- Status Quo
- Rod Stewart
- Duran Duran
- Lily Allen
- Status Quo
- Joss Stone
- Kanye West
- Natasha Bedingfield
- the Feeling
- James Morrison, and
- Orson (wasn’t he the pig in the cartoons by the guy who did Garfield)
Fuck me. Chuck in James fucking Blunt, Black Lace and copy of the Birdie Song and what you’ve got there is not so much a concert as a shit wedding DJ.
That’s why I love the idea of this gig… because it’s going to prove beyond any shadow of a doubt that neither she nor her little Chuck-Spawns-from-Hell possess(ed) any fucking taste at all! Just look at that line up and tell me that any lingering reputation she might have had for having style is not already in its coffin and waiting only for the addition of Chris de-fucking-Burgh to the bill to finish nailing down the lid.
All that crap about how beautiful she was and how brought glamour to the royal family – all a load of bollocks. Even Jade Goody could manage glamorous from time to time if she had a special flunky just to slap on the yoghurt every time she got thrush.
Think about it for a second – can anyone really think of anything that would do a better job of fucking up they way she’s perceived by the public than this concert…?
Other than, perhaps, the sudden appearance of a home video marked ‘Diana Does Sandhurst’.
And while we at this – can anyone out there honestly say that when all that Wills & Kate split bollocks was all over the news, they didn’t see the stuck-up twat give that poxy little snort when Nick Witchell asked whether he’d be getting married, while he was on the skiing trip, and think…
Fuck me! It’s Tim Nice-But-Dim!
Go on, be honest… you did, didn’t you.
FFS, the guy went to university to study the history of art and left with a degree in Geography. How the fuck did he manage that?
You can imagine the conversation is the vice-chancellor’s office can’t you?
Errr. we’ve got a bit of problem?
It’s Prince William… he’s… he’s… well not to beat around the bush, he’s fucking useless.
Ohhhhh shit! If that gets out my knighthood’s fucked for starters. What do you mean useless, exactly?
He’s useless. Knows absolutely fuck all about art – think’s Leonardo was the speccy kid that used to get sodomised twice a week by old Squiffywhatshisface at Eton.
Bollocks! Must think… quickly… got it! Is there anything he does know?
Well he knows where Buckingham Palace is…
Right, well that a 2:1 in Geography, then. Problem solved… Now is it the left knee or right knee first when you kneel before the Queen..?
Then there’s this crap about whether Harry should go to Iraq. Fuck him, he wants to go, so put him on the fucking plane.
The guy clearly knows the score. The deal was for an heir and a spare and he’s the fucking spare, so why should we give a toss about him – it not as if the government give a shit about sending anyone else’s kids out to Iraq, so why give Charlie Windsor’s youngest brat an easy ride.
What are they thinking? That’s his last name’s Bush or something.
As long as William’s not a Jaffa, then where’s the problem?
So what if he could get himself killed – it’s only going to saving him from ending up like any of the other spares of recent times.
You know, like Uncle Andy the junket-king or what’s his name, you know, the disappointment – the one who’d rather sing than get married and live in his dad’s castle in the swamp…
… no, fuck! That’s ‘Holy Grail’ isn’t it? The disappointment is the one who couldn’t hack it in the marines, so he fucked off to work for Andrew Lloyd Webber…
Ah bollocks – it amounts to the same thing either way.
Centuries of (in)breeding – you just can’t beat it.