Waity Katie needs to get a life
Dear Kate Middleton, Get a life. A job would be a good start.
Thing is, your boyfriend’s grandmother, the one with the penchant for corgis and who instills fear in the hearts of pheasants everywhere, has spelt out the riot act. Her Maj reckons that to be a future Queen of the people, you first need to be a working girl.
Sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but the UK’s Mail on Sunday has reported that “The Queen is keen that the monarchy should lead by example and that the princes and their girlfriends should all be seen to be hard workers.” This well-placed Palace peep went on to add “The Queen has made it known that she feels Kate should get involved with a charity, possibly an animal charity”. Labradors of the UK watch out.
To be told that you should get a job because the public perception is that you are a bit of a waste of space by a grey-haired octogenarian who probably can’t work her own kettle and who has never carried a front door key must be a humbling experience.
OK, so Diana got away with demurely wrangling small children while waiting for Charles to withdraw long enough from Camilla to get around to popping the question, but a few things have changed in the wannabe-Princess game since then.
Unfortunately Kate, these days people want an (at- least titular) future ruler with a bit more going for her than an ample cleavage and an average arts-degree. We want a Princess bride who has done something with her life more intellectually taxing than attending Ascot and something with more substance than shopping for hats in Harrods.
I want, no expect, a future ruler who has contributed something more to society than bringing wrap dresses back into fashion, who may have shopped at least once for her own loo paper and who has been made to work out how to fill the toner in the fax.
Being a vestal virgin, a debutante or the progeny of landed-gentry don’t quite cut the royal mustard, sweetheart. Debretts, Horse and Hound and a Cheltenham race guide are no longer the Required Reading List, however, a tax file number, a Thai take-away menu, and knowing when garbage night is are.
Kate, you need to create some semblance of an impression that your days involve more than the heady whirl of idly flipping through Bride-To-Be and waxing your bikini line in preparation for another arduous stint on a yacht bobbing in the Mediterranean.
Sadly, at present your CV could be easily scrawled on the back of a beer coaster in less time than it takes to order a double gin and tonic. You have dexterously taken that 2.1 in Art History and parlayed it into a brief foray as an accessories buyer for a mediocre High Street chain store (shopping for belts, bags and broaches, watch out glass ceiling!). You may have enjoyed the occasional stint taking snaps of tots for your parents’ party- planning website but in my book, this is hardly the way to be filling in the hours until Wills produces a rock.
Because thus far, what have you done to make yourself worthy of my affection, my allegiance, my respect? Who wants their head of state’s greatest achievement to have been organising a charity roller-disco?
And it’s not just the job thing. The life you have lived, I have followed with voyeuristic delight courtesy of the telephoto lens- toting and intrepid WiFi- linked paparazzo of today.
To the not-so-casual observer your life is hardly one chock-full of worldly experience, of exploration and adventure. It’s a life that has barely stretched beyond Chelsea, Bijou and the braying-mass of Turnbull & Asser wearing wags that you seem to go drinking with. Swim-up bars, sarongs and St Moritz do not a broad life outlook make.
And the other thing that frustrates me is this- he’s your first boyfriend. In this day and age, who outside of the Mormon community and the viciously unattractive, gets hitched to the first person who doesn’t bolt when they’ve seen you in the cold light of the day? How about a few loser lads to regret later, a drunken mistake or three, god even a sozzled snog in the pub? Kate, are you sure you want to get hitched to the first suitable boy who comes your way, that whole ‘Future King’ thing aside?
If you need any convincing, take a glance across the channel at the WAGs of the Crowned heads of European royal houses and you’ll find a clutch of one-day Queens whose pre-palace days involved doing something more interesting than contemplating the relative merits of getting a fringe. The thing is they have lived their pre-Prince lives grounded in some sort of a reality, a reality of jobs and messy relationships and travel to countries that do not require packing a litre of Ambre Solaire and the latest Jackie Collins.
Mette-Marit Tjessem HøibyCrown was a waitress and single mother when she turned up to the Quart music festival and met Crown Prince Haakon of Norway. Waiting tables and getting knocked up by a man convicted on drugs charges sure fill in the days.
Princess Maxima of the Netherlands was indulging in a spot of international finance working for Deutsche Bank in New York when she met her future husband. This is a woman whose marriage into the Dutch royal family involved having her ‘suitability’ investigated by the national parliament, saucy lass!
Masako, Crown Princess of Japan has an Ivy League pedigree (hello Harvard and Oxford), has done a stint in the diplomatic core and has waged a very public battle with depression.
Queen Rania of Jordan is the Kuwaiti-born daughter of Palestinian parents who has had couch time with Oprah Winfrey, posted videos on You Tube debating the meaning of Islam and has attended the World Economic Forum in Davos- a pointer Kate, that’s the place where you go for skiing and post-piste partying.
Letizia, Princess of Asturia and one day to be the Queen of Spain was a TV journalist who reported from the front line in Iraq and who married her teacher before snagging Felipe the Spanish Crown Prince.
And of course there’s Our Mary who’s made one hell of a transition from “Belle Properties, Mary speaking” to holding, amongst countless others, the title of Countess of Monpezat.
Even Prince Harry’s on again, off again squeeze and your sometime playmate Chelsy Davy has managed to finagle her way into a law degree. Add to that she’s the daughter of a Zimbabwean businessman who reputedly pals around with Mugabe and is perpetual fag-dragging paparazzi fodder, (all those wonderful shots of arse-cleavage, ugh boots and an obvious appreciation of vodka). This girl is a far cry from some demure picture of vestal virginity and appropriate hemlines.
Get a life Kate- while you still can.
I want a Queen who’s made mistakes, made beds and made merry.
We’ll respect you more. We’ll like you more. It’ll even, I reckon, make you a much better Queen if your affinity with the hoi polloi comes from personal experience rather than having occasionally caught the end of Coronation Street.
And when those palace gates shut, at least you’ll know what the rest of us are up to as you try and get a fawning corgi off your leg and wonder where all your husband’s hair has gone.
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