Mary has a moment...momentarily

Amber,

I'm getting creeped out here. Can you PLEASE try and get hold of Fred (I haven't seen him for days) and tell him to talk to his ma and convince her that I have a FEMININE presque-zizi. It's all girl, OK? All pink. It's really bad for my skin when I hear that Dais has been communicating with those slags on that blog. Can't Fred get the security guys to block the site or something or suing them for defecation of character or whatever you call it? And how about them getting hold of the guy who ran the Star Bar in Sydney, Gavan? What did he tell them about my time as Love Account Manager? And why can't my dad and my step-dumpling hang out with his folks? It's bad for my ego having my side of the family treated as though they aren't just as important and way more classy than a couple of clog wogs - any clog wogs.

I'm feeling isolated and upset, and it's bad for the baby. I am on notice that I have to produce something pretty classy, or Fred 'n me is all out the window. Everything I do those Cece&Hester whores are onto. Best wiggery in the business - black market Romanian hair - and they spot it. I'm supposed to be HOT. That's what princesses are about. How can I show my face in public if I don't look HOT?

Have a bone to pick with you, Amber. You showed up at Centennial Park looking like a slag in a muu-muu thinggy, as per our contractual agreement, trying to make me feel as though you're still the ugly friend. THEN I get to see the makeover glamour pix all over the Tito website. It's just NOT ON for you to look better than I do. Don't make me send over a new contract, cuz this one will definitely not be in your favour, hm? Just tow the line, please.

GOD, I just hate my mother for passing me those early-ageing genes. And why the hell did my grandmother send me all those cruddy little twee cards? It's not MY fault I threw them out. It's HER fault for not having taste. And looking too ordinary! I'm SPECIAL and they have ALL let me down. Including you, Amber.

Oh, shit. Get up, kid. Get up. Dammit. Meeeeeeetttttt-uhhhh! Come get the kid, he fell and he's getting blood all over our non-decorated, stale palace. Oh, crap, look at that cut. Right in the middle of the forehead. Jesus, that's all I need. Now my kid's letting down the side and is going to look like one of those street kids church groups make you send money to to feed. Great, Marie-Chantal and Carina will see this at Chrissytime and know for sure now that I'm not on the same level as them. They're already on to me, I'm afraid. You can't believe what upstarts American girls can be! Look, just keep a closer eye on the kid, Mette, OK?

Anyway, what happened to that forum I was ghosting on all day and all night? Dead as a doornail. There's a new one called Royaldic or something. As in Heraldic. Can you hop on and post some PR for me? I'm too scared to go on the net. I found some weird thing while I was casing around feminine archetypes to get some pointers. It turned out Fred's search history was casing around feminine archetypes too. There's an archetype called the Hideous Damsel who confronts the Dumbling when he's about to achieve success. I had this horrible, horrible sensation Fred is viewing me as a Hideous Damsel. What do I do? You're a bit of a Hideous Damsel aren't you? Are we both? Is it too late? Can I quickly segue into a Princess Anne type or the Queen, I mean the real Queen, of course. But the trouble is Amber I am relying totally on clothes for effect - take away the Prada & the weave and I deflate like one of Fred's fun rubby-rubby dolls. I'm sad! I'm worthless! I installed all those bathrooms and I've found myself on the floor licking the tiles, many times! What's going on in my psyche, Amber????

I need you! Don't desert me! Amber, stop becoming classy and beautiful and contented and studying and being worthy, PLEASE. You just make things WORSE. Why didn't anyone warn me? What has everyone done to me? Why did I mess with my looks? Cece and Hester were right all along - I should have been warm and natural and me, me, not me, me, ME but the real me, the sort of country-type horsey classy girl, kind of no-nonsense, the Scotch Nanny... the Bo-Bo ... oh, why oh why did I crap on about being sporty when I never looked at a stick after school? Why did I tell all those lies? Fred put me up to it, I tell you! I didn't know gold Lurex would make me look like a Love Account Manager. Why didn't Fred know what he wanted and just let me be me? Why can't I just live in a palace and not have to be Queen? I don't want to be Queen. I just want to SHOP. Why can't I choose a nanny and not have a spy-nanny reporting back to Margrethe?

I know what I want! Cece and Hester will guide me. They can do a Trinny and Susanne make-over-the-make-over and reverse me out of this cultural desert and disaster. I'm beginning to think that they're right about Anja. No more wearing curtains! No more witchy-poo hats. NO SMOKED COD. NO ROLLMOPS. NO RICE FUCKING PORRIDGE FOR CHRISTMAS DINNER. NO FUCKING FROG FATHER-IN-LAW. And Frederik can go take a flying fuck at a doughnut. He can go take a flying fuck at the moooooooooooon......

You still there? What does truth serum taste like? I'm telling you, Daisy must be slipping something into my drink. I'm going to cut her off at the pass - go where she's going. Get those bloggers on side. Bogansons, wha hae! We've lost the battle, but I have a fallback plan. Send that Tui Ha Moti-Poti or whatever that Maori prince boyfriend of yours's name is over. I think we need an ANZAC battle plan, now that the Boganson teeth are in abeyance. I need to learn a Maori HAKA, a big, scary one, that I can do at Margrethe's KUR. I'll show her who's really in charge!

ME

A new consultancy to the DRF

Attention: Ove Ullerup, Lord Chamberlain
Den 20. december 2006

Herr Ullerup,

Thank you for your recent letter detailing your findings of my eldest son's strange shenanigans. I've attached it to the police file for one Mr. Snoop Dogg whose "business" here in Denmark I had the Justice Department clear as it involved Frederik and something about white powder, which is just a little bit too close to the spirit of his recent holiday in Australia and the Galathea III's business. It's bad enough that Mary's bogan relatives are getting in on our game and perverting it to no end with their see-through homes and official duties!

Why couldn't Frederik just have taken up smoking like me and Papa? It doesn't take velvet bags and diplomatic immunity to enjoy a nice carcenogenic puff every now and again, and it certainly doesn't need to be enjoyed in the company of American rapping musicians. (As a side note, we might want to send a precautionary communication to Dr. Geldstein regarding Mary's increasing desire for the next child to be a celebrity-African kid. To put it bluntly, over my dead body!)

As you can surmise, the Prince Consort and I have been deeply confused by, as you succintly put it, Frederik's decision to "snob himself down". You mention that it took place approximately four years ago. As far as I can remember, that is about the same time that a young bogan filly arrived on Denmark's fair shores, fooling us all with her "discretion" and "charm". I honestly thought that after testing her ability to clam up around the papparazzi that she'd be a bit better at this. My sisters and I had all agreed that perhaps letting her have all the corrective surgery she needed would put her in a state of gratitude to us that would have surely translated into a diligent, selfless representative of our fair nation. Boy, were we wrong! RIP noblesse oblige. As my dear husband would say, "quelle arriviste!"

Perhaps I had misunderstood the advice of Dr. Freudenborg, Frederik's psychotherapist. He did say that Frederik would require a strong woman to be his wife, but it seems as though well-balanced and secure were a couple of the missing components of that strength. In other words, he meant "inner strength", not just possession of Iron Thighs. Dear. I wish I'd realised this the day in Caïx when I engaged the two. No wonder Frederik sent out a press release immediately from Amalienborg right after my pronunciation from France that a grown man wouldn't be too pleased to find out from the media what plans his parents have in store for him. And I just thought he was still pining for that underwear girl, what was her name? Yes, Katja. A right balanced, non-potato rejecting, sweet Danish girl. Hindsight is 20-20, wouldn't you say?

Well, it is clear to me more than ever that the advice I should have been following all along was that of a couple of new friends. I am pleased to hear that you have the signed contracts with them for the new DRF consultacy, Ove. They are wise beyond measure and seem to have a very special grasp of royal Danish custom and that strange behaviour from Down Under that has tragically nurtured the Crown Princess in her formative years. Admittedly, their bluntness and honesty can be quite alarming and a bit of a shock to one's royal system, however I have determined that their insight is worth coming off of the valium drip for good as I have quite a bit of housecleaning to do in this court. As the girls have said on their blog, "Don't fuck with the Daisynator!"

I'm delighted of course, that these women had the extra-sensory perception to read my cry of help in the "cheery" decoupage altar cover I made especially for Roskilde Cathedral, final resting place of Denmark's kings. It is understandable that the art critics had to have a go at the hideousness of my creation, but let them talk, I knew full and well that it was necessary to communicate the hideousness of the future of the royal family and that the resulting altar cloths would be rather an eyesore as a matter of course! If only they knew exactly what pain it tells of!

This antependium, with technical assistance from the Royal Danish Secret Police, transmits intelligence to Cece and Hester, and thanks them for the alerts and intelligence. This is why we had no choice but to offer an ongoing role to them as courtiers. Make sure they each get a white elephant for their efforts (hopefully they won't wear them like a breast bunion the way More-y does), however we'll have to keep their investiture quite a secret from the rest of the court, and certainly from the nation. They are NOT to publicise my largesse, please, or I'll have fires to put out and Bogansons claiming that I'm dispensing Treasury funds inappropriately. Professor Boganson is keeping a VERY close eye on the public accounts. What a hide! Matched the teeth.

It's a shame one of my new friends and supporters is in Australia, isn't it Ove, because that means my embroidery is subject to the Cash for Comment regulations in Australia. I've attached my draft of the compulsory acknowledgement for paid positive comment by the girls on the blog. I've kept it snappy. Mustn't waste pixels! Get it approved by Mr Giles Tanner at the Australian Communications and Media Authority ASAP and I'll beam it along. You will need to explain to Cece the history of the cash for comment - it's too complicated to describe in scarlet and blue thread. I listen to John Laws via shortwave all the time, have done so for years. LOVE his attitude to reffos and infidels, and homosexuals, so if Cash for Comment was good enough for Lawsy, it's good enough for Daisy!

How have you gone organising a back-straightener for the princess? I want her on it. If I have to spend another minute with a daughter-in-law who stoops, I'll straighten her shoulders myself. In public. Consider her warned! If she thinks those little bitch slaps at Easter and at the Parliament opening were rough, she'll be right shocked by the way I will pin her to the mat faster than she can find another excuse to travel south for the winter! It's my knees that are failing, not my strength!

There is one other thing while I think of it: could you please find out who is the doctor in Italy who had a 65-year-old woman give birth to her own baby. I'm starting to wonder whether I shouldn't haul my own eggs out of cold storage. They couldn't possibly produce anything worse than F and J have turned out to be. Get Dr. Geldstein to investigate, please. Fred is NOT to know, of course, and I can get myself along to the US in the guise of yacht-gazing or yarn shopping. Joachim can be told - he doesn't want the throne but he'd love to keep Mary and Fred off it. I'll deal with reversing the succession if there's a live birth.

I simply don't believe what that girl is putting me through. Ove, how did you let this happen? You must read up on the fate of those who fall asleep on their watch, and then get cracking! Hmm?

Margrethe

Dish it out

Go get yer snark on!!!

Royal Dish

A trusted 'grey suit' writes to Margrethe

Your Majesty,

I am attempting to keep you up-to-date with your son's mental meanderings and sexual proclivities as gleaned from the servants and other eyes and ears around the palace, but he is certainly a serial digressor! Small fires constantly being hosed is perhaps the most accurate way to put it. And putting out a fire with whiskey isn't really the way to go. To put it mildly, there are some concerns.

Firstly and most oddly, Frederik has plans to spearhead a revival of the Lasse Braun years, when Denmark was at the forefront of the liberation of pornography. This must arise one presumes from the 'talking dirty with his sailor mates' that Frederik has been repeating ad nauseum. Lasse Braun, you will recall, was featured on Arte recently with a couple of documentaries. The fact that he's a washed-up loser appeared to find no form with Fred, who was glued to the screen. Must be a further sympton of his decision about four years ago to snob himself down. His wife, being no stranger to sex industry advocates, was bored by the doco - "too hippy", she declared.

Fred was inspired by The Devil In Miss Jones of 1973, which Andrew Miles showed him on DVD in Bondi Junction, and wished to produce a revival with roles reversed and Frederik himself taking the lead. He seems to be rather anxious to scratch the acting bug again. Here's a synposis of the original film: Justine Jones, spinster, commits suicide, and the Devil offers her the opportunity to live her life over again as a sexually rapacious libertine. It appears from this posting on the internet that Frederik's plans have reached pornography historians: "Although rumors continue to fly about a more modern "re-imagining" of the original film's storyline, as of December 2003, nothing concrete has been announced by any major adult video studio". His wife's family's talking buttocks seem to be a keen inspiration to him. No word yet on whether the female lead will be played by man, or if union rules will demand the role be open to rather butch, waistless actresses as well. Frederik seems quite anxious himself to put on the d'Artingnan costume again.

Since those original plans for a fairly innocent movie, Fred's proclivities have become stranger and stranger. Take the servant with the bandaged knee. Her knee has been healed for quite some time, but continues to wear the bandage under orders. She, a plain, middle-aged working-class woman, is required to stand by the sidelines observing the royal couple constantly, even in the bedroom, I'm sorry to say. She seems to have been singled out for her uncanny ressemblence to a walrus crossed with a scotch nanny. I can only surmise that Fred is projecting is wounded, damaged unconscious onto this servant in some way. The woman also had an alarming ressemblence to old Nanny MacGillicudy back in her heyday working for you. Odd. A matter, you will agree, for further investigation.

Similar twists on banality are surfacing elsewhere. Take the holiday Down Under. What orgy of self-punishment is the Prince self-inflicting, one wonders, spending time with those freakishly freckled children his nieces and nephews? They resemble the freckled Devil twins in The Devil Wears Prada. His royal Highness was the point person for all the runs to the Hill Street Grocer. He carried all the shopping bags. He spent most of his days jumping on the trampoline with the kids or meeting up with his brother-in-law's loser friends from school. Back at Jane's he slept hanging upside down under the balconies whenever he wasn't in the humidor. Your majesty, it is quite simply, deeply disturbing. It's as if he would rather foresake his glorious destiny and instead live life as a regular, bogan Joe. I have asked Dr. Freudenborg to put some decent analysis up for a change. How can such a simple, childish fellow with such basic, elemental needs baffle the professionals so completely?

Yours truly,

Ove
Lord Chamberlain

Bylaws

As head of the cpmary blog IT department, Maria has put forth a Honey Do list to her assistant, Mr. Maria, to create a new message board for the Bannedshees. Requested from you, dear reader, are suggestions for rules and regulations for this new venture. The fewer the better, but the ones we adopt should lean toward the encouragement of snarkilious hilarity rather than punative horsepucky. For the relief of jealous, overweight, sociopathic biyotches only, or are befriended, mentally balanced, positively contributing members of society allowed as members? Perhaps also symbols, mottos, mascots and mission statements are in order? Is your goal the downfall of the DRF, or just to take a stress-relieving bit of darts practise at Mares? At any rate, tack on your ideas to this post's comments section and let's see what delicious brew we come up with. C'mon, the Hornet, the court, Johncock, even Mary herself are just waiting to see what we come up with next. Onward, cpmary bloggers!

Fweddy fwims in his iddy biddy poo

This classic was all ripe for skewing, so sit around the billy and sing along!

Down in de meddy in an iddy biddy poo
Fwam two liddle fiddies an a mama fiddy too
fim fed da mama fiddy
fim if oo can
fo dey fam and dey fam all over de dam

Singin' boop bop dittem dattem wittem choo!
boop bop dittem dattem wittem choo!
and dey fam and dey fam all over de dam.

ftop, fweddy, fed da mama fiddy
or you will get wost
but de two widdle fiddies didn't wanna be bossed
de two widdle fiddies dey went off on a spree
and dey fam and dey fam
right out to the sea

boop bop dittem dattem widden choo!
boop bop dittem dattem witten choo!
and dey fam and day fam ite out to de fee

Whee! fed de widdle fweddie fiddy
Here's a wod of fun
doo biss so muss fun Mawy!
we'll fwim in de fee till the day is done
Vey fam and dey fam and it was a lark
Till all of a sudden it began to get dark

Hewp! Cwied widdle fweddie
Mawy's weewy a SHARK
An she coming wight at me
and she nark and she NARK!
An kwik as he could
he turn on his tail
and he fam and he fam
wight back to de dam

Fee, widdle fweddie?
fed da big mam fiss
Didn oo know dat SHARK is call
FLAKE down under??????
Dat Mawy, fe's DANZEWUSS!

But iss OK I hass iss look after it
And da mama fiddy pwoduce a
post-nup-shell
an let her widdle fiddy
fafely keep fimming aroun'
and fimming aroun....
and fimming aroun...
and fimming aroun...

I'm still fad, said fweddie
an i feel like I had da wollmop
tweatment weal bad.
But now I'm good. I can woll mysef up
an' I don't need dat shark putting a toofpick fwoo my
fpine to keep me stwaight any more.
Night night mama fiddy
(*ucks fum)

Talk amongst yourselves

While Hester and I continue to cook the juicy Thanksgiving turkey that has been the crown princely holiday to Oz along with the ensuing ægtepagt news and Amber-sighting, why don't you all help yourselves to a drink and get cosy in the living room and catch up with each other. We'll all be around the table again in no time!

PS. If you're looking for the gin, it's in the kitchen with us..."never cook sober" has been a Cece & Hester motto from early on!