Treated like royalty
‘Everyone remembers where they were when John F. Kennedy died.’ That’s what they told me, the misty-eyed grown-ups. And, being an inquisitive child, I put their theory to the test, spending weeks asking uncles, aunts, grannies and grandads just exactly where they were and what they were doing when the President of the United States took a slug to the back of the head. And to man, and a woman, they could tell me.
That seismic event took place more than fifty years ago. Soon there won’t be anyone left to tell us where they were when it happened. Instead, it’ll be lads like me telling young ‘uns about the night the King of Pop succumbed to his addiction to prescription drugs, the day Ayrton Senna perished on the streets of San Marino, and the drizzly August morning when we woke up to the news that England’s Rose, Princess Diana had tragically died at the age of 36.
I remember where I was when Diana died, I remember it vividly. but only because of someone else. Hungover and sleep-deprived I was up early on that Sunday, ready to watch football, recuperate from my excesses. But there was to be no football on that day. I turned on the television and was instantly bombarded with images of strewn debris, mangled metal, flashing lights and grim-faced reporters. There’d been an accident. Someone had died.
When they announced that it was the Princess of Wales, Diana Spencer, wife of Charles, mother of William and Harry, I thought, “Jesus, that’s terrible” and nothing more. Then, like the devoted son I was, and still am, I went to tell my mother. Nursing a hangover of her own, she was still in bed.
“Hey Mam?”
“What?”
“That wan you like, died.”
“Which wan?”
“The Princess, you know, that Diana wan.”
“What?! You better not be joking.”
“No. It’s on the news, honest.”
I soon discovered that my mother didn’t just ‘like’ Princess Diana, she, like many of her generation, idolised her. The entire Sunday was given away to grief, tears were shed, phone-calls were made, eulogies offered up, as Sky News played on a loop in the background. At one point, four hours into the suffering, I asked whether “we’d be getting a dinner at all today,” and instantly wished I hadn’t.
But I understand now, I understand why my mother was so upset, why Elton John wrote that song and why the funeral was a national event in the UK. Princess Di was different, she wasn’t like the rest of them, she breached the gap between the traditionally austere Windsors and the common people, displayed a human touch not usually associated with dignitaries, with royalty. And she was adored for it, not just in Britain, but in Ireland too.
Twenty years on and the sons she left behind are all grown up. One of them, the bald lad, has a wife of his own now, a nice girl, pretty, inoffensive, nice. And she has a sister, one that looks really like her and is probably just as nice. That sister, the sister of a woman who married a Royal, was in Ireland this weekend. Did you know that? She was here for a wedding, in Cork, and she ate a Tayto sandwich. I know this because I saw it on the front pages of our national broadsheets. Not in the tabloids, not in the red-tops, but in the, supposedly, quality papers.
Why are we still so obsessed with these people? Why, whenever one of them pays us a visit, do we completely lose our minds, reverting to the servile little Irish, fawning all over them; yes m’lud, yes m’lady, what can I possibly do you for my Lord?
When Prince Charles visited Kilkenny recently – bringing the entire town to a standstill in the process – it made headline news on Six One. Even though no-one with any sense cared a jot, we were informed that the Prince was to be lauded for having the decency to return to the country were his great uncle was killed, and told to laugh along as he underwent an impromptu hurling lesson under the tutelage of a real King, Henry Shefflin.
Look, I get it, there are lot of unhealed wounds between our countries, and the fact any member of the Royal family can come here without fearing for their safety is reason to be grateful. But we’re over it now. The Queen came, wore a green dress, and wandered around Cork’s English Market. She shook hands with all the important lads, said a few nice things about us, and everything was forgiven. Let’s move on. But no, the obsession continues.
It’s hard enough to fathom how the British public continue to abide the Royal family, how they can coo and cluck over children whose luxuriant lifestyles will be entirely funded by the taxpayer, but our fascination with these people is beyond comprehension. Does it, once again, come down to our insatiable desire to be loved? Are we that pathetic? Are we so grateful that Pippa Middleton, who, lest we forget, is only the sister-in-law of a Prince, came over for a visit that we have to splash it all over the front pages in case she doesn’t come again?
Much of it, sadly, comes down to the touch of glamour the Middletons have brought to proceedings, the feeling that they’ve made the Royal Family exciting again. After Di’s passing, Fergie’s toe-sucking and Andrew’s philandering, the gutter press struggled to recreate what, for them, was a golden age of royal reportage. During this dry spell, they had to content themselves with the odd story about Harry being drunk or Prince Phillip making an another idiotic faux-pas.
But since Kate joined the clan things have been ratcheted up a notch, barely a day goes by when the British tabloids aren’t publishing pictures of her in some delightful frock, her Royal highnesses by her side. That’s to be expected though, those papers make a living out of the covering the royals. Ours shouldn’t. You may think I’m overreacting a bit, that Pippa coming to Cork is an interesting story, and that the tale of the sister of the wife of a Prince eating a Tayto sandwich deserves to be covered. But this is just the latest in a long line of stories.
A few weeks ago, when Pippa got married, in Berkshire not Ireland, it was front page news in our Sunday papers. Before that, when Pippa had her hen party, in France not Ireland, there were pictures everywhere. Last year, when Kate and Will, attended a garden party, yes, a garden party, in Northern Ireland, our broadsheets were all over it, simpering about the Princess wearing a ten-year-old coat and waxing lyrical about her innate loveliness.
These people just have no relevance to us anymore, in the grand scheme of things they are nobodies. If you need an example of just how irrelevant the Royals are, look at their reaction to the recent terror attacks in the England; a few trite statements, a painfully contrived visit to a Mancunian hospital, and then nothing, back to living in la-la land where they belong. So, if their daily minutiae simply must be covered in this country then let it be in the gossip magazines, in the red-tops, alongside their contemporaries; reality TV stars, people just like them, who have become famous for doing nothing at all.
Something fishy in the water
With bin charges on the increase, many of us are looking at new ways to dispose of our rubbish. Burning it is an option. As is driving up to the mountains and burying it. But flushing it all down the toilet really shouldn’t be, especially when you consider where that waste ends up.
A study carried out at Essex University has revealed that, due to the proliferation of contraceptive pills being flushed down the toilet, some male fish have begun to display female characteristics. Thanks to the levels of oestrogen in the medication the boys have slowly started to lose their minds, laying eggs and everything.
Researchers found that as many of 20% of the fish had their characteristics altered by the influx of birth control tablets. And it doesn’t stop there. In addition to contraceptive pills, many people get rid of their anti-depressants in a similar fashion. The result? The affected fish become less shy; fine when they’re hanging out with their mates, not so good when a bigger, hungry, fish comes along and cheery little Nemo swims over for a chat.
So please, when those increases are implemented, think before you flush. And, if really need to get rid of your medicines in this way, at least give our aquatic buddies something they might enjoy, like a few Viagra for example.
