Little piggy drafts a note

Kære Mor,

Or are you going to force anglicisation on me and make me call you mummy? Well, you certainly look and act like one often enough, although I think embalming fluids would smell better than some of the crap you put on your face. Mushed up lamb foetuses? Uh, could one be a tad more insensitive? I was just recently "promoted" from being a foetus - if you can call this a promotion. Jeez. What's up with all the beige? Beige walls, beige faces, beige cardis. Would a little colour just be too much, or is this part of your plan for bringing Far back down to his adolescent depths again? Because it's working a little too well on this creature you insist is my brother. Sweet Jesus with anger-management issues! Couldja maybe stop Christian from threatening to kill me? He only does it when you aren't here. Cuz he goes away whenever he sees you. And toward me when you're out of the room. He gives me the spooks, like I'm going to end up chopped up in the freezer one day. What have you done to him? And I take it he hasn't even been around for very long, which scares me for what I'm in store to experience.

But let's deal with what you can handle first: can you get your body double out of my sight? She stinks of gin. I know Far can't tell the diff, but I can. It's subtle - she has a whiff of gumleaves and pharmaceuticals. Different pharmaceuticals from Far but, still, not so flattering on a tranny type. If he sobered up he'd notice. What's the plan, Stan? Send her out to launch things on your behalf or something? Hey! I'm half Danish, you know. You think the slow Danes won't figure? We're smarter than you think, we just have a huuuuuuuuuuuuge tolerance for all royal bêtises. We'll come around, eventually.

And what's with the plotting? I can hear, y'know. You guys hover over my cradle and it's like being on the set of Macbeth. Who's this Rob-Roy Woadbod you have on the phone so much of the time? Is he the nice Jewish man who injected me with all sorts of counter-bogan gene-ery? And what's a corporate takeover and restructure of Denmark? What are you talking about? Is my darling Daisy in on this? And Grampa Jock - mathematician indeed! He's spent HOURS on end rocking me while attempting to slip subliminals into my head. Things like "Grandpappy needs an apartment pretty badly, lass, a nice roomy one".

May I remind you, mother, that I am in fact half royal, and you're a commoner. Or you'll be back to being a commoner asap. That's what Far reckons, when you're out of the room. You really should spend less time in the gym and more time with Far and me. You might learn what's going on in his head. OK, not much, I grant you. But what makes it through the fog ain't happy with you. You should hear old Farmor Daisy. Far seems to curry favour with her, don't know why. Though he yelled at her the other day for giving you a Coat of Arms. What's that? Like a wrap with lots of sleeves or something? Gosh, I have a lot to learn.

Far says that first he has to wrest a whole lot of jewels back from you before you get sent back to Boganville. Shall I tell you? Oh, OK, you can't do anything about it, anyway. They're substituting paste for the jewels. Ha! My beloved Farmor Daisy reckons you wouldn't know the difference. Ha ha!

Lastly Mor, why did you tack my favourite name at the back of the list? I'd like a re-write, if you don't mind. Alerka is an awful name, and is just too closely associated with the bogan cousins. And the fashion names? Tiffany Kylie Marni Cartier is just so nouveau-grostesque. I've got defensive class sensors that you don't, mama, being half-royal and not needing to compete with Far's family. Your sensors are offensive - pronounce that either way you like, babes. Course, soon as I grow up I'm going to rename myself Victoria. Far says I can. He gets so bleary-eyed about it and says the name is so beautifully evocative. Strokes my tiny bum when he says it, too.

By the by, soon as you're off the agenda I'm going to forget English and take up my ancestral language. Your English is embarrassingly posh and bizarrely twisted. I only know one or two words, and they're both from Far. They sound like brand names. What's Acapulco Gold? Is that tobacco, drugs or alcohol? Or the pet name for my future step-mor?

Gud bevare!
Prada Alerka Amber Mary Margrethe, aka Mini-ME, soon to be Lille Prinsesse Victoria

ME starts to get the skeeves

Amber,

What a past couple of weeks! Even my head is spinning (and no Amber I didn't laugh about that post on RD comparing me with the head spinning in the Exorcist), I cannot believe all that has passed, and not at all quite TO PLAN (Max Markson is derelicting the me obligations and chasing after David Hicks I believe).

GODDAM MOTHERFUCKING LETI!!!!!!!!!!! Jesus H. Christ, that crazy, skinny Spaniardess just HAD to do it ALL OVER again. Right after my kid, and this one isn't so bad looking. Leti pops out another little natural beauty without a hair out of place on her skinny head. Can you have a skinny head, Amber? It's what I've been going for lately. Atrophied legs (check out the shot of me with the Swedens last week, that little Chinaman has done WONDERS for me), atrophied head. Stupid, but skinny: suck it, world! And worse, Leti's oldest kiddo is actually super cute and TALKING. Christian is barely grunting, and then only when he's doing his mini-caveman thing. Still, at least that bodes better for his masculinity than Freddles at the same age.

So of course, we had to wait until they did their publicity pics before we did ours. Gave Steen more time to airbrush me and de-yellow the little piggy (that's what we have to call her until July 1st). Bit worried about the piggy angle, actually, my old man looks like a pig. I actually don't like him much. His teeth used to make him spit all over Xian. I guess now they've been Hollywoodised at least he isn't spitting. Must say, I didn't like that do-up. Cuz it showed up Daisy. And she is SO not happy right now.

Actually that crazy Spanish B*TCH didn't even have to pop the spud out. SOMEONE's just a little too posh to push. She got a zipper installed in the ol' incubator. I asked Yehudi to gimme one of those so I wouldn't have to sweat and strain through labour, but he always got a giggle fit going, sputtering out words like, with that Pictish pelvis? or some such madness. Bastard.

So if it isn't bad enough that ONCE AGAIN I have to have a kid within a week of ol' lollipop head, then Monster Chin has to come over and try to STEAL MY THUNDER. Well, guess what, babes, I'M NOT COMING TO YOUR STUPID PARTY! Plus, Daisy told that short, constipated looking king that I will not be requiring a Swedish order (it's a ribbon you wear to look more royal). That crazy knock-knee'd, smoking cow! I'm telling you, this is not good, Ambs, they're on to us and just waiting to push me out. I'm just wondering if I can hold on until Miss Daisy Chain-Smoker kicks it and I am QUEEN finally and can do what I want with the jewels, the power, and Frex, or if she'll beat me to it and kick my arse back down under before I can secure the Boganson wealth for generations to come.

Anyway, I talked to Max Markson and he really thinks that stepping back from this visit and looking thin and hurt will help me twofold: one, I just don't have the dresses and jewels to compete with all those Scandy whores NO THANKS TO YOU, DAIS; and two, with me not being able to get in the way of my husband and his true love Vickan, I get to appear the martyr. (Plus, I had to lose the Roma weave during pregnancy, something about my Pictish hormones and the Romanian DNA not being compatible - man, even gypsies look down on me - so Søren's got to reinstall it now.) It's the Poor Me play torn right out of Diana's playbook. HA! Except it doesn't go as well as it should because Sister Vicky knocks it out of the fucking ballpark clotheswise (which she NEVER does) and shows up one day dressed in white as "Frederik's Bride". She practically had a veil on. Well, shag me in a ute and call me Mama. The NERVE! I was furious at Max, he absolutely should have intervened in matters of Swedish wardrobe. He swears he's all about the details, then lets it all slip through the cracks. Worst of all, Fred loved it. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's photographed from behind. Caught red handed - with it stroking Victoria's bum!

So, to get back at the whole happy party, I get Jane over here under the guise of "helping with the baby" even though we have three nurse-nannies now. They actually spend more time with Frederik. I'm not quite sure what they're up to, since I don't go to his wing anymore, but I'm pretty sure it's no good. Again I ask, what izzit with him and blondes? Jane's been busy in between G&T's (she gets more and more colonial the closer we Bogansons get to the Danish throne) writing out all sorts of prescriptions for Baby Boy, and I don't mean Christian. He doesn't need downers, that's for sure. Fred has really been giving me the skeeves lately. I think he might be dating someone in the American cartel, which would explain all the trips over there and me not going to Brazil with him and all those pics of him looking so goddam HAPPY and relaxed on the Galathea. Just when the news breaks in the press that Fred's "talk dirty with his mates" is actual fact, with prostitutes on board. Eeew, I guess that means all of them talking dirty at the same time. Like group sex or something. I'm actually pretty shat off because if they cut off the callgirl freebies on Galathea, Fred won't go, and I'll be stuck with him here for, well, days on end.

Enough about the Dumbling, Christ almighty Christian looks like my family. Jeez, poor little guy. And he ain't talking yet, either, Amber. That's normal, right? He's like totally normal, yeah? Those slags on Royal Dish are always harping about him being autistic, but you don't really think that's it, do you? So, anyway, the Chimneys-in-law have this old beater they like to ride around in, pretend they're the shit, and the other day it totally breaks down. Well, as the French say, le sang bogan ne saurait pas mentir. You shoulda seen me and Janie go into action. Boy, do we know what to do when a car breaks down, or what? I'd been driving used ones for too long to not have a wrecker service on speed dial. Henrik was pretty impressed for once. SEE! I can so do stuff! So I get some brownie points and give my strange, numbskull kid something to distract him for a few minutes instead of having to read to him or something. Janie and I took our drinks out to watch, too. Just like the good old days: nothing like throwing back a few, watching the menfolk deal with their broken down cars! Garage chicks...don't get me nostalgic, Ambs, but sometimes I wish Fred had a whiff of grease about him, not Mr Dior product or stuff.

So your little pregnancy caper didn't actually pan out, did it? Couldn't go through with it? Or couldn't find a baby the right age and ethnicity to pass as a half-royal Maori-bogan? Half Maori kids should be ten a kroner around Bondi. Oh, maybe not Melbourne. And where's Adelaide? And what the hell were you wearing at the Logies, babe? Are you sure you aren't fulfilling some Brazilian "samba school" fantasy for Fred? And by the way Markson told me you put in an application for "Dance with the Stars" featuring you and MY HUSBAND. Like he'd last long enough to earn you anything. I'm worried about your Miami-Maria aesthetic, Amber. You know damn well Pict won't wash next to "Miss-Universe-On-Every-Corner" South America. YOU DON'T HAVE THE SKIN KIDDO.

Fred rubbed the Scando visit episode in big-time as well, the asshole. Gave me a cheap watch. Does he think I'm going to be pleased by a $10,000 Cartier when I've had to stand within six feet of a real Crown Princess? She gets a real throne. I'm gingering around the concept of Fred passing the Throne to me, and him going off as consort. Early days, Ambs, early days. I've got to head Daisy, Lis and Per the Hornet off at the pass: they're on to the Boganson magic and showing their jealousy in some very unpleasant ways. It's bad enough that the new post-nuptial agreement predicts my demise after the birth of "the spare". Then the lack of Swedish order - I mean, even that peroxided druggie in Norge gets one! I'll have to ask Rob Roy if there is historically bad blood between the Swedes and the Picts, or something - I'm telling you, Ambs, there is a buzz in the air, and like most of my genetic makeup, it is NOT flattering to me! I'm just waiting for Pops and Solicitor Woadbod to get an ALERKA-sponsored beachside property and citizenry reinstatement guarantee for me.

Soon as all that's written in blue blood I'll have time to concentrate on your problems, darls. Oh, glad to see you didn't boast that I'd rung you from the birthing suite this time around. Everyone knows the only person I'd call from the delivery table is Max!

Toodle pip darls. Oh all right. Keep it real. Hooroo!!!

ME