Dead Countess Ruth: get out of my way!

6 August 2010
Pink Flattery Wing, Kancellihuset

Dear Diary,

Take that, dead Countess Ruth! That's for not wanting me to join the Danish Royal Family. I'm getting back at you for dying on the day I was going to announce my latest, strategic pregnancy. I waited until the gorgeous, normal Norwegian royal family had arrived in MY (well, my husband’s) country to go to your lousy funeral and then – bing! – I got publicist Lene (with Max Markson and Nina Fudala's help) to announce the news to the entire press. Queen Margrethe mumbled some mention about bad timing for an announcement during family mourning, but who cares about some old wrinkly kicking it. How can the press possibly care about someone who looked like a prune!

Mind you, there has been a PR hiccup. I pay Max Markson and Nina to second-guess these things. Of course all the photos coming out of Ruth's funeral have everyone looking sad and wearing black instead of celebrating my assured presence in their family for a further 10+ years! I actually didn't think of that. Max Markson should have thought of it and warned me. He could have jazzed up the suits, got them to do what a modern funeral does - wear bright colours, and celebrate the dear departed with a few sherberts and some drunken passes, like my family did for our Granny. Mind you, there was some debate there, all those years ago. John Stuart Donaldson, my disloyal brother, actually cried. He'd better be celebrating my pregnancy when the WA press ask him, or else! Tell you what, he sure knows not to set foot on Danish soil. This is no democracy, Stuey. I have dungeons!

I’ve been following Royal Dish’s collective headache at my wonderful news. Ha! Can you believe those ridiculous slags never put two and two together? Hello! EVERY time I come back from the United States, I’m pregnant. EVERY time Fred gets too depressed to shave - I'm just back from the lab. Dr. Yehudi Geldstein owed me in a very big way after switching out the Boganson genes in Isabella for royal ones from Victoria and Lilibet. I mean, look at Isabella – she already resembles the Queen Mum at age 80! So I got him to give me a two-fer. I really need for these two bubs to be identical, but Yehudi couldn’t guarantee it. And they really should be boys, so that if, er, push comes to shove for my first-born in the glacial northern parts one day ... ...

I almost feel sorry for my little martian-gosling Frederik. He didn’t see this coming, although anyone could have if they’ve been following me. I took Amber’s advice for once and consulted with a magician at the circus I have to take the kids to. He taught me about sleight of hand tricks and the hand being quicker than the eye, yadda yadda. At Margrethe’s private birthday dinner, I had a tiny plastic cup handy when I went up to Fred to tongue him after his Mor-and-me-against-the-world speech to the old biddy.

Ha! That tongue-kiss at Queen Margrethe's gala fest was a triumph! There's my legacy in the annals of great romantic moments. Not too many icons get to record their passion for posterity in view of a phalanx of jealous cameramen!

Well, tongues in automatically mean zizis up for the old boy, and while everyone was concentrating on our moment of “genuine marital passion”, I had him unzipped and squeezed downstairs like a cow’s teat getting milked. I’ve been doing one-handed, one-eyed snake wrangling since junior high school, so I knew this would be a cinch. Fred comes quickly, luckily (the drugs and alcohol help with thatty), and - boom! – we were done. After releasing the vacuum lock on his lips, I quickly slipped the cup into the folds of my dress and I’m pretty sure no one saw. Princess Maxima may have had an inkling - but she was in such a state of shock I doubt whether her analytical skills were foremost for that moment.

So I retired early from the gala that evening (everyone thinks I'm delicate princess material) and went back to my pink-lit suite at Kancellihuset. I stood on my head while I made the nannies pour the golden baby syrup into my snatch. Gawd, they can be so difficult. So SLOW. What’s to protest? You see the hole, your pour into the hole. It’s conveniently at eye level for you. It's actually a privilege, geddit? At Versailles it was a privilege to hold the Sun King's chamber pot. Joizuz. Well, the nannies were shaking so much, they ended up getting most of the jiz to run down my torso instead of into my baby maker, so I had to call up Yehudi to meet me in New York just after my Jackie Kennedy moment in Washington, DC. Stupid Americans. No one seemed to care! Those pasty white, fat rednecks standing under the podium from me at Arlington didn't even turn around. They were actually pointing their cameras at the grave of a dead person, and not at a real princess! So now you understand why I really, really hate dead people. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. I sent Fred back to Copenhagen and flew up to New York to meet Amber Petty. She went along to my appointment with Yehudi to threaten him if he wasn't compliant with my double-revenge-baby plans.

With hindsight, though, I'm getting a sneaking suspicion that Queen Margrethe (I refuse to call her Daisy at the moment) had been in Yehudi's ear already, and Fred is getting hell because I don't trust what's growing inside me. Yehudi could have organised any sort of genetic cocktail, and none of me in it whatsoever. Yeah. I'm angry. And because these bubs could be genetically Marie, or Jokke, or Vickan, or even Caroline Heering for all I know. Come to think of it, what if they are Katja/Fred babies that Yehudi planted inside me? I bet they are!

That could scotch my plans to move the nursery rooms into his wing. I thought Katja would have had no choice but to move out. But if these twins are actually Fred and Katja's, and I'm just an incubator ... ... ...

OK. Revenge. I’ll need at least 6 more nannies. And Fred may need 4 more himself! I've already started calling the little foetuses Fizzle and Fuzzle.

Well, as Amber says, accentuate the spiritual. I’m loving how all of the attention once again is on ME. It's actually really really good for my soul. That's how it should be all along.

Double babies, double welfare. I am set for life. A smooth brow forever! That's spiritual wellbeing in MY church! There is no way that they will be making me hit the streets without my Louboutins and without a toothbrush - in other words, as empty handed and unPhotoshopped as I came in. Yeah, so, I didn't have a toothbrush. But they can't ruin the mother of four children! They'd be seen as ogres, cold, uncaring. See how I did that? Turned it all upside down so that I'm the one who looks warm and caring? You cannot mess with fiesty Scottish fisherman blood and not get fish guts all over you!

Those Schackenborg boys of Prince Joachim's can just start figuring out which trade school they're going to attend because there is NO WAY that they will be inheriting the throne now that there will be TWO understudies for Christian when he is, er, retired exceptionally early. Say, age 10. My kids may have potato heads, but they were born to Old Smokey's oldest son and that makes all the diff.

Four children. Just like Ma. Just like the Queen of England...

No one will be making fun of me at the upcoming Greek wedding about chest rubbing princes at the Slip Inn as long as I have double babies on the way! Mary, you've got it, babe. You are one righteous lady. Now, I just have to figure out how to handle the Greek sun with full kabuki makeup. Maybe I should call up ol' Ruth's embalmer for tips?

Anyway, of course, there's more than a little spiritual schadenfreude, that I'm rubbing ole Amber's face in it one more time. Mary: 4, Amber: nil. My spiritual take on life is that it is a preschool playground in Mt Druitt, doncha know. Bongs, booze and hard-hitting women. My sister-in-law Marie was lording it over me with her beautiful baby; sorry, Amber, you have to suffer my bitchslaps in turn. Get used to it.