Crown Princess Mary of Denmark

Katja Storkholm, Crown Prince Frederik's true love

2011-12-23T06:17:00.000+13:00

Dead Queen Ingrid invites Cece and Hester to tea

2010-08-31T22:30:00.037+12:00

Setting: Ingrid's heavenly parlour, sunlight flatteringly reflecting the all-white décor, in stark contrast to the leaden beige interior of her former home, Kancellihuset

Time: One week after grandson Nikolaos’s wedding in Greece

Scene: Dead Queen Ingrid pours tea.

Cece, Hester - one lump or two? We are very anglicised, you know. Daisy – I gave her the same nickname as my darling British mother - and Joachim speak perfect English with no Danish accent whatsoever. It did surprise me when your compatriot Mary adopted such a sing-song way with her own language. She seems to be a bit of a unique bard of her own persuasion, I must say. But do draw closer, my dears. We royals love a bit of gossip with our confidantes, provided the subject is not one of us.

Girls, you must have wondered why I have invited you here. I am about to deliver you a homily and near-rant, rather than indulge us in tea-time chit-chat, I am afraid. I must unburden, as I have had to steer my family away from a crisis and a threat to its very future. Believe me, observing my darling grandson’s Greek wedding - where the "real" royals jolly up the pretenders - redoubled my intention to relieve my royal family of its egregious interloper. And I'm sorry not to exchange witticisms and bon mots with you lately, my dears. But there is an important Matter of State at hand, and I am limited in my communication vehicles these days.

You two have at times been mouthpieces for my Daisy - something I have heartily approved. Now I will make royal use of you. You have both been virtual courtesans in my own Kur for some years, and your service has been both noticed and appreciated. I have been watching events unfold over the last ten years and resisted the urge to influence my descendents. It's not the done thing to interfere with matters once you've carked it, dears. One waits until one’s dead. That we all end up sitting in a large parlour in the sky is a myth. It's more like Sartre's "Huis Clos". I have some tedious companions ... it's all awfully egalitarian here. Of course, I wanted to pass time with the working class, they do have a certain nobility in their boring routine. But there's this hideous lower order I have become acquainted with - and I think it is the wellspring of that Mary. If I have a regret, girls, it is nothing of my own making - it's circumstantial.

My dying just as Mary was getting her claws into poor little Fred was inauspicious and of great inconvenience to my dynasty. You know I am all pragmatist - otherwise my darling Daisy would not be on the throne! But that Mary has me non-plussed. What an extraordinary mix of vulgarity and hauteur! Is that what "middle-class" is? My darling Anne-Marie has always been intrigued by such ordinary living, but I never worried too much about it. As my French son-in-law says, "le sang royal ne saurait pas mentir!" She may enjoy an incognito visit to the supermarket every now and again, but her eldest son married a monied and impeccably aspirant arriviste, and her daughter’s marriage has her living on a remote island with a husband who is marked by the exciting risk of involvement in light, local scandals. What could be more royal!

I would not have thought this to be the middle class. I know scientists and money counters and historians and mathematicians up here, and none of them have been anything like that strange girl from Taroona with her ridiculous mannerisms and Tourette's tics, and hairtossing and lip-pursing - alternated with cutesie-poo, shortie-pyjama, showgirl tricks. Mae West and Pamela Harriman have been invaluable consultants. When you two informed me that Mary’s milieu had been the red-light district of Sydney, it all became a little clearer. Too late, of course, for my Frederik's better judgment. Fred is a puzzle to me, now. He started with such strong beginnings: a Scottish nanny, lukewarm porridge breakfasts and a dashing, stern father - and his brother has turned out simply brilliant! He could easily be an administrator, potentially a field marshal if, God forbid, we should ever go to war. Joachim has a poet's soul, a philosopher's tongue, and the mien and carriage of a king. Fred has the comport of a dwarf who lives on starch, lard and aniseed liquor.

So, girls, I wanted to let you know I have been relying on your missives for light relief, as Crown Prince Frederik treads his path to ruin with that hussy! And light relief has been much needed. In the normal course of events, an unfortunate infiltration of bad blood from the likes of this Professor John Donaldson, are absorbed into the guts of the dynasty and chewed like tobacco and spit out as if by a rodeo cowboy, leaving behind a strange ooze on our path to dynastical glory and a nasty bout of indigestion. The inadequate member is put on the outer, and simply incubates a generation. I have been so pleased that Dr. Yehudi Geldstein's astonishing genetic advances have allowed us to divert our brood away from the malicious Donaldson genes. Sadly, I am observing that Frederik's "outlier" gene profile - as Yehudi describes it - simply does not stand up to the behavioural problems that Mary has brought with her. I do blame drugs rather than anything intrinsic - though, as I mentioned, Frederik's unfortunate stature was a surprise.

I have had this problem for some ten years, and even when you have no body to pickle in cortisol, I assure you that the stress symptoms are the same. To cut this long, sad tale short, I decided to become exercised in this little war of attrition, because it has been taking too long. Denmark is celebrating my centenary, and a decade since my death, in order to restore some pre-Mary common sense to Daisy's reign. The Danes' Mary love has been a massive episode of a form of ergot poisoning - like a Middle Ages peasantry developing a folie à milliards together on a dose of Toxic Donaldson. Well, Danes, christen yourselves Rip Van Winkle, or Sleeping Beauty - whatever your era of sleep, it simply must come to a close. Frederik came within a whisker of liberation from Mary, but being shrewd, she had arranged the "Paula Yates" drug and had her insurance policy in her pouch. Henrik was apoplectic at the news.

Cece, Hester, seeing my poor family on the steps at Gråsten in a state of gloom was a sorrowful moment for me. Mary ran from Fred's side and interpolated herself on the Joachim and Marie side of the steps, drunk on her perceived new power. We royals, though, bide our time. Polite in company, with honed blades down our trouser legs. What finished Mary for Frederik was when she had a bitchfight with Henrik on a balcony, in front of the nation that Henrik always feels on tenterhooks with. Embarrassing Henrik - you know from his recent "bullying" comments to Henrik’s biographer that Frederik will always side with his Papa - finished Mary in Henrik and Frederik's eyes. It took Mary's infamous lap-dance and tonsils inspection in front of Princess Maxima and the rest of the world - at a formal, royal gala event! - to finish Mary in Daisy's eyes. She is walking the plank as we speak.

As I said, blades down the trousers, cutlass at the ready - and scrupulously polite words at all times, with our hands, like Crown Prince Haakon's on Spetses, behind our backs. Mary is redolent of a doomed Morgana, an Anne Boleyn type. Fate moves in mysterious ways. Prince Christian is an odd bird, and who knows where his tendencies will take him. Observing him, I have the same reaction as I did with my darling husband’s brother Knud – and I knew then that the throne just had to be taken from him. For me, Ingrid, the choice is clear! I will leave my concerns with the youngest generation to another day (knowing the Schackenborg boys made a wonderful foil to Fred’s kids), and make it my business to ensure that, soon, Crown Prince Frederik - my beloved grandson, despite his shortcomings - resumes the warm influence of Katja Storkholm and makes her his Queen. But, Frederik knows, I am bred tough. If he remains under Mary's spell, I will turn my efforts to ensuring that Prince Joachim and Princess Marie prevail, with the support of my people.

Hester: Thank you so much for your time, Your Majesty. We will do our very best to help you however we can in your noble endeavors.

Cece: You have any more of those delicious cream cakes?

Dead Countess Ruth: get out of my way!

2010-08-07T05:27:00.057+12:00

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.

An imaginary diary

2010-07-31T19:51:00.022+12:00

Dear Diary

I had to go and see Mor after my bath. First time in a fortnight.

I have been going to Junior Starmakers sessions. Mor was very cross with me. I applied myself to my lessons too diligently, she said.

Let me explain. My first lesson was to learn how to stare really really hard with my eyes open and not blink, like Mor does to the cameras.

Now she is saying I have to change how I stare because I'm staring like Princess Michael's dad in Germany when he was young & about to order an unfortunate off to have a medical experiment. Like, hello, how can I control my irises? They are little points because I'm pissed off with the world. How can I frigging well dilate them when Lille Pige is right in front of me? Not to mention my cousins over on the right annoying Mor just by looking aristo - so we'll all cop it later at home. Regency-fop-in-waiting Niko gets my goat.

Speaking of goats, Mor has been complaining that her favourite website, Royal Dish, has nicknamed me "Busy Bubble" or something like that. She sits and swears at the computer. I keep saying, get off the frigging machine, Mor, if you don't like it, and let me at a few grown-up sites. But she's addicted. She's on that site all the time. It must be a homage to her or she wouldn't bother.

So, I have pale blue eyes with pinpoint irises. Since when has that been unusual in Danish royal circles? Mor had another whinge when her website called me Ceausescu. Family friend, Mor! That's a compliment.

Anyway back to Starmakers. I'm not cut out for it. My nannies keep telling Mor, I'll never be a Nik. And in any case, she'd have to spare some of her wardrobe money so I can wear little suits like Niko. The freebies for Mor from the fashion houses have dried up lately, something to do with her public profile - except, she reckons they are trying to get stuff onto Auntie Marie. Marie doesn't care about brands though. She just wears what she likes. Anyway, if Mor's "cranky, turned away" profile is what is worrying them, it's fine with me. If staring at Mor's cranky face keeps Pa on the scotch and oot da waugh in the northern wing, that's just fine with all of us.

Mor and Pa have had a couple of encounters in the corridor lately. Why they can't just take different routes around the house is beyond me. But Mor keeps sneaking around hunting for Auntie Katya. Katya's kinda nice. She let me look at great-grand-mor's real ruby parure last Sunday! Papa Fred has the real one now and Mor has a fake - granny had a replica made because they found a miniature pick thing in Mor's bedside drawer, and a whole pile of the rubies in a matchbox. They tested the parure and Mor had swapped heaps of them over for glass ones. Great-auntie Benedikte said she couldn't believe Mor did it on her own, because she has such big clumsy hands.

So, I went to see Mor, she checked out my stare, told me to stop telling the nannies I love them, and followed me upstairs just so she could take the reindeer hide out of my bed AGAIN and put it on the floor. She said if I want a comforter I can have an old teddy bear. It's OK though. The nannies put it back in my bed as soon as Mor had closed the door. They know they have to do exactly what I want or they're in trouble.

WELL that little encounter with Mor threw me and I can't remember whether I'm having supper with Pa or with Mor or with the nannies this evening. Mor forgets half the time anyway, which is handy. I used to hate it when it was Pa day in case he got all maudlin and emotional on me. But now that he's living with Katya in his quarters, he's perfectly normal.

I overheard the nannies the other day and they said I might turn out fine. Like I care! I turn out how I turn out, and f*ck the lot of youse. That's what Auntie Amber taught me to say. Katya doesn't like it when I swear at Mor and Isabella and the servants and the nannies and Ziggy. But she still gives me a big hug and doesn't worry about anything. I love Auntie Katya x x x x x x x she is a real woman.

XXXian

Avatars

2010-07-23T16:22:00.016+12:00

The Press Council writes to the Queen

2010-07-17T01:55:00.008+12:00

TO: margrethe@drf.dk

FROM: Pressenævnet (Danish Press Council)

Deres Majestæt Dronning Margrethe,

Firstly, Happy Bastille Day to you and your consort. We hope that this is not too insensitive given the parallels between France in 1789 and Denmark in 2010. We only mean to acknowledge the French heritage of your husband and progeny.

You requested holiday photographs of your children and grandchildren and some of the results have not been to your satisfaction.

We must apologise, but wish to provide some explanation.

1. Obtaining fabulous, positive photos of Joachim, Marie, Nikolai, Felix and Henrik was of course easy. No nannies in sight, and besides being photogenic, they are bursting with joy and contentment and take pride in dressing the children well.

2. The press attended on Crown Princess Mary's visit to the circus, as suggested, and they had no control over the situation. She chose to wear black, and the reporters and photographers certainly didn't spray chili in the air to produce tears in both children. Nor did they Photoshop a bruise onto Isabella's arm.

3. It was impossible to convince Frederik to go out in public alone with the Princess without fulfilling an entirely inappropriate payment request, not in the form of alcohol (which we would have happily acceded to) but a more serious item, so we attempted a substitute opportunity for the Prince at a sports event with other people's children. That would have worked fine, except that the Prince forgot he is a grownup when in the company of so many kinder. Again, we had no control over the expressions on his face or the clowning around.

4. We had no control over Katja's decision to be photographed on the same day looking beautiful and wearing royal purple. How she obtained Queen Ingrid's ruby tiara to wear, we can only posit that Crown Prince Frederik facilitated the occasion. Whether that was to fulfill a deeplyfelt wish, or to annoy his wife, we cannot theorise.

5. Contrary to the Princess's advisor's assertions, we did not tip the Prince off with the fact that Katja would be in the same location overnight, and Apple were unable to block communication between Frederik's iPhone (he clearly is not in possession of the iPhone 4) and Katja, as they follow international protocols and as Denmark's royals being above the law didn't apply to the company.

We wish to respectfully submit that if the Crown Prince Couple wish to have positive coverage in the media, they consult the web advice forum Royal Dish, where the Princess will find advice on what to wear, how to behave, whom to avoid in terms of drug addicts and hangers-on, and upon whom to model her behaviour.

Please convey to Prince Joachim and his family, our delight at the news that a cousin for Princess Isabella may be on the way, and we wish to submit a request for a photo opportunity on one of Isabella's regular solo visits to Joachim's family.

The most positive coverage for the Danish Royal Family currently, would be if Prince Frederik, Katja and Isabella were photographed on an outing with Joachim and his family.

Yours truly,

Pressenævnet

14 July 2010

Princess Isabella writes to Daniel Westling

2010-04-30T13:32:00.007+12:00

30 April 2010
Kancellihuset nursery

Käre Daniel,

Today I write to you in sheer distress and pleading for your assistance in calming my fragile heart. Oh, my darling, presque-cousin, it is almost too much to bear to watch my dear Fjolle-Far, Frederik, reach such depths of sadness and misery.

Life seems to be harder for Far every day. You realise this all started with Cousin Madeleine breaking off her engagement with that Cousin Felipe look-a-like she was with for so long? It’s just so sad and pathetic what Jonas did. After hearing of such skanky behaviour on his part, Dr. Geldstein was alerted to look in his files only to discover that Jonas and my mother are actually very closely related. His maternal ancestors were also from Port Seton and cousins to my "professor" grandfather. Proves that an ancestral fishy smell is damned hard to wash off!

To make matters worse, the news is out that the entire family had been involved with helping Madde reach this decision over the past several months. It’s as if hearing that royal family unity on top of breaking up with a skank can happen, put Far over the edge of reason. "Why don’t I get that support? What can I do?" I hear him in his room every night after More, or Her Royal Highness the Countess of Monpezat (as I am more and more required to refer to her, as we grow further apart), leaves Far’s little den and calls for a maid to flick the lightswitch in the halls onto "flattering pink light" as she proceeds, so she can return to the penthouse. (The maid is, of course, to flick the light back to "fluorescent green tinge" every time Fred appears, to ensure that his self-esteem is kept low when he glimpses himself in any of the 5,000 mirrors Mor has installed).

Far comes often once my soi-disant mama has departed, to talk to me about his troubles … he always wanted me to be named for your adorable bride Victoria. He knows we are all made of the same royal stuff. Sorry, DanDan, but there are just some things that we get that you outliers don’t, even though we love most of you all the same. (It takes quite some outlier to test our capacity for love of the people!) More often makes me jump out of my skin when her Hoganson habits surface. A whore AND a bogan!

Sometimes when he has been reassuring himself with a few sherberts after a particularly Hoganson-influenced family dinner (Mama is partial to Chiko Rolls and ABC Soup), Far reminds me that my honorary uncle, Dr. Yehudi Geldstein, was given orders by my darling Farmor Daisy to make sure that, after the sheer genetic disaster that is my brother Christian, that all Hoganson genes were to be excluded from my genetic makeup. He thanks the Heavens (he is rediscovering the Lutheran church, you’ll be pleased to know!) that all the royal cousins gave DNA samples for him to clone and use on lucky me - including Auntie Lilibet in England! She’s really my cousin, but I love calling her Auntie since she’s so much more cuddly than my Daisy. (Less smoky, too.) No wonder Far gets confused on his relationship to her!

Poor dear DanDan, all of this royal parentage and intertwined family tree business must be so confusing for you! Did you know that it’s More who is related to Vlad the Impaler and the ghost of Anne Boleyn, and not Far? Funny! More is also related to Maggie Kirkpatrick and Myra Hindley! They and Vlad are where my horrid brother gets his murderous tendencies from. By the way, Daniel, if you get offered a White Elephant, it’s safe to accept it. Nikolae Ceausescu’s one is the one they gave More. I think that was Daisy being cute and perspicacious.

Anyway, let me elaborate a little. Far has never really come around to you coming between him and sweet Victoria, but he seemed to accept the relationship as one not unlike his own: a real royal getting her street ya-yas out with a regular Joe. Then came the engagement. And while we were truly very happy for you both, Far went deeper into the realisation that he may never have Victoria for himself. Nothing personal, Dansie, it’s just that he has always seen her as his ideal partner. Naturally, marriage to More never changed that. My darling Daisy made him take one for the team on thatty.

Anyway, I can’t hardly take it anymore with the crying and the moaning and the poor me’s and all that feeling sorry for himself business. My inheritance is already being depleted by More’s shopping sprees, and her inquiries into suitable South American surgeons, and now Fardy-Far-Far is drowning us in invoices for mass orders of Kleenex, rollmops and scotch.

Seriously, that bizarre Hoganson genetic material is contagious – and that worries me. I am still made of different stuff, but I do stress. I was terrified the other day when my poor little left foot showed the beginnings of a bunion just like More’s. I hope I can put it down to her attempts at surreptitiously footbinding me with two-year-old shoes, and not some hideous and spontaneous Hoganson invasion of my person. More’s Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy was finally diagnosed by my teachers - they have me in proper orthopaedic footwear during school hours to try and reverse the club foot affect from the supportless, designer ballet slippers and jodhpur booties More has me wear for photoshoots. But they have to restore my "at home" footwear each afternoon. My nannies cry, but dry their tears by the time we get home, because More gets a kick out of seeing any of the servants cry.

I assure you I was getting to the point where Farfar Henrik throwing me off the balcony of Amalienborg into the crowds – symbolically on Daisy’s birthday – was a loving gesture and sweet surprise. He seemed to be saying, take her, any of you, she will have a better life! Then who comes out of the shadows to "rescue" me but More! I fought valiantly to enable my beloved Farfar to aid my rescue, but thanks to diet pills and steroids, More could wrestle even my most resistant form from any pair of man’s arms. Plus, she employs the presque-zizi as a lever. Now that’s simply beyond the pale, as anyone would agree, and a significant aggravation of abuse.

Oy! Hehe, I got that from Dr. Geldstein! As well as a distinct and constant craving for a sesame bagel with a schmear and the New York Times crosswords every morning. Funny. More knows all about Yehudi – she found out long after the fact, having been convinced that he was a beauty therapist and the saint who was blending up lamb foetus poultices for her complexion. No plastic surgeon could have fixed the expression on her face when she found out. We all cowered under the single fluoro light in the palace that wasn’t tunable to soft pink. She wouldn’t go near us – it was like having a bunch of garlic held over us!

So here’s the long and short of it: I’m on the prowl for a job transfer and since Uncle Yehudi told me about you and Cousin Vics not being able to have your own boganson babies, I’d like to apply for the job. The wonderful news is that genetically I have more of Vickie in me than More anyway! It’s perfect!

I feel obligated to inform you that since I would already be the first born in our new family, that I would also be the future Queen of Sweden. Trust me, the war on Denmark and my brother King Xian Amin Mugabe Ceausescu will be like no other in the long history of our two countries over territory and liquor taxes. You think there are a lot of drunken Swedes passed out along Nyhavn today? You ain’t seen nothing yet – you’ll need stilts to walk amongst the passed out along Strøget! And how would you and my darling new mother like a country home in the south of Sweden, near the border with Germany? I think you get what I am saying about expanding territory.

Mind you, while Xian is really, really thick, he is quite frightening, and we should all take comfort in the knowledge that historical "nemesis" Norway is completely on board with this idea, too. Ah, sweet Cousin Haakon and his darling wife and children! Have you seen Haakon’s face when he is within a bargepole of Mary? She never sees it – he is clearly in fear of turning into stone. Poor Denmark. A bit of nostalgia for what could have been will surely make me feel bittersweet over the eventual union of Norway and Greater Sweden as we watch royal Denmark swirl down the drain of history as if a soup of spit, hair and toothpaste, replete with a mad gurgle of expletives from bamboozled (and boozed) Bogansons and scraggled armies of Freckled Gargoyles before they ever reach the Rosenborg jewel vaults.

So back home I’ve had my spies send out feelers to the rest of the family, and my darling Uncle Joachim and his beautiful brood are naturally supportive of my transfer. They know. Oof, do they! I will miss speaking French with them on a regular basis (that really gets More’s cornichon). Let me tell you a secret – Marie is utterly fluent in English, and so is Jokke, and so is Daisy, and so is Fred – but they simply refuse to enable More’s monolingualism and are still far from recognizing that a woman so well endowed with native cunning could be so slow!

They take comfort in knowing that we will all be united at grand family occasions. I will happily help broker some deals between the female heirs of the Netherlands, Spain and Belgium so that the wonderful Schackenborg line can begin its glorious reign over all of royal Europe. Perhaps Auntie Marie will have another beautiful boy for darling Ingrid-Alexandra in Norway. I’m not sure yet who I shall choose for myself. Adorable Sverre Magnus is too closely related, but those Belgian boys are cute. Or perhaps I should revive an illustrious young archduke or anonymous German prince. Believe me, Dan, with a mother like mine, I’m afraid I won’t be risking marrying "outside".

Remember, too, that as the Freckled Gargoyle cousins from Down Under reach marriageable age, More will be bribing the minor aristocracy with rubies prised from Ingrid’s parure. (Don’t worry, I’m keeping watch on the jewels and I check her bedside table nightly for jeweller’s pliers, under the guise of a goodnight kiss. She has always had a carat testing kit. She tests all the jewels Far gives her since Daisy passed off a gold plated brooch on her after Christian’s birth.)

Dan-Dan, I needn’t labour on account of my cause. My claims of gender discrimination by my own mother will soon be filed with the Swedish Royal Ministry of Human Rights as soon as all of these other details of my new name, official transfer papers, visa, etc. have been processed through the Ministry of Immigration. Oh, I’m going to make such a wonderful and enthusiastic Swede!

Here’s the catch, though, dear Daniel. I shouldn’t really give a true account of More. I should rather be emphasizing her best points. You, my noble friend, will have to run off with More so that Far can have his darling Vickan. Can you do it for us all? I can work with Daisy – Henrik will be able to swing anything with Daisy in the next six months, she is high on the sexually explicit statue he bought her for her birthday. She thinks it is heterosexual! I can guarantee that the payout would be substantial. Far would put his country into debt to build you a gym empire anywhere in the world outside the Scandinavian countries.

The only part missing from my thesis and plan is attempting to convince myself that you and Mary could possibly hit it off – even with More as a beard. Every man has his price, though, Daniel. Please just name it! You would make a great Australian. You look like Jemaine from the Conchords – and they are so jealous of New Zealand having those two! You also look just like their favourite senator, John Faulkner, the Mr. Darcy of Australian politics. If you have a thirst for rock star or political power and influence, Australia is your best bet! They can even arrange a McMansion in a seaside suburb called Manly for you. More just loves it there!

Now, if you insist on having Victoria, you would best be tolerant of a side affair between her and my Far. You have to understand, Dansie, this is how the royals have been doing it for centuries! We can play it either way, depending on your preference, but do give us notice if you’d like to stay on as Victoria’s public husband. My main focus is refuge for myself – I know, that sounds selfish and unroyal, and it’s a further plea for my case. I must remove myself from her sphere of influence!

Much love,

Izzy
Soon to be Princess Ingrid-Victoria Benedikte Marie

Open Thread

2010-02-19T17:04:00.001+13:00

blah blah blah

Mary in Vietnam with in-laws

2009-11-02T09:49:00.024+13:00

Darlings, we've found some photos of the core members of the DRF meltdown doing their royal slurp thang in Vietnam. Thomas is working overtime to get Royal Dish restored and Maria is busy wiping his brow and bringing him lemonade, so no worries, we'll be back up in no time. You can't break us down, Mary!

In the meantime enjoy the show. Mary looks miserable - hijacked by her philandering husband and the Chimney-in-laws for a visit to Dame Henri's childhood home.

And more fun ensues with Jock 'Half-Mast' Sluuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrppppppson taking care of XAMC and Our Izzy. Poor girl, she looks beside herself here at the Hubertus Hunt wearing her brother's hand-me-downs and purple booties with her gargoyle grandpappy!

Deliverance-sur-mer

2009-07-03T05:29:00.013+12:00

Mary: Jesus fucking Christ, Christian, what the hell do you want? WHAT.THE.HELL are you trying to tell me? Just tell me fer Chrissakes! Stop yer bloody pouting. CRIKEY, yer a whinging mess!

Xn Amin Mugabe Ceaucescu: eeeeehhhhrrrr...mine...where.Far...eeerrrrraawwwwgghhh...ehhhh... want.Mette...owwwwweeeerrrrrraawwwrrggggghhh...WANT... NOOOOOOO...MINE...eeehhhhhhhh

Birgitte: Oh, dear, she's doing it again. I'll just discretely look away and pretend not to hear and if she turns to me I'll just be admiring the lovely sea. Oh, just stop, Mary. I don't want my own children to hear such things.

Nanny: Oh, I do hate it when she yells. It makes me want to just curl up and go away. Poor Christian. She's teaching him how to become a bully!

Water-bound friends: Mare's on a tear again. Let's get outta here! Swim faster!

Mary: Hey, you, tan lady, what's yer name? Gimme that. That right there, just hand it to me. Hellooooo, you, I'm talking to you. Would you please pick that up and give it to me? I need it for the children. My children are suffering without it! Do you want to be responsible for my children suffering!? Izzy, are you behaving for our guests? You better be behaving. I don't want to hear from them later what a selfish little girl you are. You got that, missy? It's not all about YOU!

Tan Lady: Why did I let myself get talked into this? A week in Italy with friends. Sounds nice, eh? Birgitte warned me, but I thought, no, it'll be ok, and I've been working so hard, thought this would be a nice break. Shoulda known. She's really so much more ghastly in real life. I think she's the first hillbilly I've ever actually seen with my own eyes. I'd heard about them before. And I saw Deliverance. Now I get it. Shiver.

Nanny: Oh, no. She's doing it again. Don't make eye contact. Poor Isabella. I just don't think there's a thing I could do for her to counter this woman. And if I'm here why is she parenting? And if she's in charge of the kids, why can't I go for a swim? Just one little swim? I may have to rethink my employment here. Why am I here!? Poor Frederik. This just means more cuddles for him in my heavy bosom, poor man.

Mary: Nanny. NANNY! HEY! What's yer name? Would you listen to me for once? Hello! It's MY holiday, not YOURS! You're on the clock, sister. Would you flipping listen to me, I'm trying to give you orders!!

Xn Amin Mugabe Ceaucescu: Hey, HEY! You, on that boat, who you lookin' at, fuckface? Piss off! Can't you see I'm trying to relax with me mum and her quiet friends? Bunch o' wankers, you, motor off!

Birgitte: Uhmmmmmm, uhmmmmmm. Breathe in. Breathe out. This whole holiday will be over soon enough.

Jeppe: Look away, look away. Man, Fred wasn't kidding when he calls her Ol' Iron Thighs! Shiver.

Nanny: Oh, God, my nerves are shot. I'll just pretend to be engaged in lovely, happy conversation with princess Mary's friends. Maybe that will be a sign for her to stop the yelling.

Wet dude: WHOA! Check out that presque-zizi! It looks like she's smuggling baguettes!

Xn Amin Mugabe Ceaucescu: WHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! WHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAA! Where's Mor(e)? I want my Mor(e)!!

Tan Lady: Christian, we love you very much. And we realised that it's not too late for you and your sister. That's why we threw your mother overboard. With no fat on her body, she sank like a stone, luckily. The nightmare is over, sweetie. Time to come into the light!

Fred: Chris, hon. It's ok. Look at me! I'm fine. See? It's all ok without Mor(e)! Look at Izzy here on my lap. She's doing great! Not sad at all. Isn't that right, Iz? We're all better off this way, son. No need to cry. It'll all be great from here on out!

Birgitte: Look, now that Mary's gone and Fred's looking more relaxed and ready to take on the challenges of being a single dad and responsible crown prince, you'll be a wonderful support to him. He does love your good nanny-bosom cuddles! Those hearty, Danish potato-poitrines do it for him everytime. We never understood the Mary diversion. Anyway, we'll make sure your salary is raised now that there are savings from firing Anja & Søren. Would you like to go change into your bathing suit now? Go have a swim! It's lovely out. Don't worry, the kids are fine with us.

A Day in the Life

2009-02-14T14:42:00.012+13:00

6:00am - Wake to sound of one of progeny crying. Hit snooze whether nanny comes or not. Make mental note to send Amber international time zone map to avoid more 3am, on-air phone calls - and one to Fred to stop accepting the charges.

7:00am - Rise, pee, thank god latest social station is above random drug testing.

7:15am - 2 sips coffee, 3 bites half a high fibre muffin, thin spread of vegemite.

7:20am - Puke before salty vegemite forces water retention.

7:30am - Visit Fred's room to find the riding crop from last night's horrid 'Melbourne Cup' fantasy. Thank god that these adventures are only once a menstral cycle. Discover a phone number scrawled on napkin with the name Cecilie with little hearts. Hit the bastard across his bum with the crop and run before the sleeping fool gets excited.

8:00am - Trot around Fredensborg Park with stable master. Remind Per to fire him for riding critiques. Nobody's paying anyone to be honest.

9:00am - Postpone shower to check DVR storage. Slump on beige sofa with bag of crisps and the remote. Make a mental note to never let myself go like Oprah.

2:00pm - Awaken from sofa slumber by driver. Brush crumbs off chest, run upstairs, put on yesterday's outfit. No time to change knickers. Slick hair back in ponytail.

2:20pm - En route, ask where we're going. Tell driver 'never mind' when he answers in Danish. Text favourite photog that 'candid' shots will be available within the hour and to call Per's office to get the address of wherever I'm going.

2:59pm - Sit up straight and tense the jaw as car approaches some building.

3:00pm - Arrive at some place in Copenhagen and shake hands with someone. Hope he doesn't notice a smell. Turn to photogs and wave. Baboon it in direction of fav photog. Hope they ignore pit stains.

3:05pm - Yank flowers from hands of very, very, unbelievably, shy child. Get in her face to relax her. Grab with man hands to comfort her. Force her mother to later explain a new word 'halitosis' and the concept of boundaries and personal space.

3:06pm - See Daisy's sister or cousin Benedikte in the lobby and force a quick demi-smile in her direction. Turn from her and not talk so as to keep my royal mystique. Wonder why she is here, too. Thank god it's not Joachim's little French pastry.

3:32pm - Suppress oncoming gas by squeezing cheeks together hard. Harder. Damn crisps.

4:00pm - Leave not a moment too soon. Wave like a narcissist with social anxiety disorder. Dive into the car like the room is on fire.

4:01pm - Take off shoes and pop blisters. Finally allow that fart.

4:30pm - Arrive home at same time what's-his-name Frek and what's-his-name Tristan ride up on their goofy bike from school. Wonder what Frex is studying.

5:00pm - Call Per to get new nanny. Saw a kid earlier and she looked dull. Obviously she needs new human stimulation.

5:15pm - Change into trakkie daks from Jane's brood for Chrissie. Get online. Order skin cream, make sure not on awfulplasticsurgery.com, funnel Mary Fonden moolah to ALERKA account, google new Nic Cester photos, & bother Herlufsholm School again for Pops. See if Rob Roy can't write threatening letter to headmaster for easy position and free housing.

5:40pm - Funnel translations of Women's Day and New Idea to the Dumpling for immediate posting onto DRF site. Begrudgingly agree that Marie's birthday should be acknowleged - but just barely!

6:00pm - Log onto Crown Princess Mary of Denmark board. Announce what you've heard from very good sources regarding good news on Mary and her loving husband Fred, in character as an ordinary Danish poster. Plant pregnancy rumours and deny those of Fred's affairs. Notice that Helle & Tanja have also logged on as their characters to shut down truth-y posters and uphold forum martial law.

8:15pm - Hit kitchen for cup of broth and celery stick. Hope the kids are already in bed so I don't have to play with them. Thank god Danes are slow so Italian kitchen can be thoroughly used and enjoyed.

8:20pm - Caroline arrives to help with tweezing in hard to reach places. Ignore Caroline's pleas that she should get home to the kids. They're already in bed, Caroline, you'll stay here, ja?

9:30pm - Call Anja and ask for her help in finding puffy sleeve tops and skinny belts and some of those shoes with the red soles because they are so totally hot now which you can tell because I'm only one wearing them. Ha!

10:00pm - Call Yehudi and ask for update on latest genetic regenerations in his test tubes. Double check no Kate Fischer or Kylie DNA. Can't rely on Frep to be immune to adorable blondes.

10:30pm - Field a call from some whore looking for Frebs. Tell her in English she has the wrong number.

11:00pm - Retire to bed with the new Billed Bladet. Brush away crumbs, hair and toe nail clippings before settling in. Make mental note to maybe take up chambermaid on offer to wash sheets. Decide on an excuse of Sco'ish water-and-detergent frugality.

2:43am - Awake to the sound of Frere arriving home and dancing down the hallway, accidentally entering nannies' suite.

4:15am - Awake to the sound of Fret singing down the hallway to his own room. Make a mental note to add cayenne pepper to his lube.

6:00am - Shit. Another day in friggin Denmark.

Vive le Commonwealth!

2008-11-03T14:26:00.029+13:00

31 October 2008

Hey Amber darls,

Thanks for the ringlet tip! I love looking heaps younger than my rival Marie, as you suggested. Curly hair fetchingly coiled down the side of the face! That’s all it takes! And you’re so right – a burgundy rinse evokes his classic home terroir for Henrik and is sure to improve relations on that front. Marie, of course, is brune de sorcière. Fred says I gotta learn French, make sure we get Caïx. I wouldn’t bother, but Papa Half-Mast has his heart set on living there as soon as Dame Henri kicks on. Shudder – hate the thought of going through H’s papers. No children’s home in the Channel Isles will have anything on Cayx for creepy tales to tell.

Anyway, French is easier than Danish. I’m holding my own on that front – gave three syllables to a journo unscripted the other day! That’s one whole impromptu Danish syllable learnt every three years! I have to become trilingual partly because Jokke married his wildcat. God, the headaches I get when the whole gang’s together and only French is spoken. It’s worse than the headaches I get from not eating properly. More mots are creeping into my brain, though, than nourriture into my stomach. Fred won’t tell me what putain de merde means. He is so noble – he obviously doesn’t want to turn my head.

I wore that Jewish Messianic wig I had made the other day too; my friend Pernille told me about it. It’s so nice and thick – but AFTER the event there was a very unkind comment about it being a brunette mullet. So nice of Fred to collect the hair while he was in Mongolia after the Olympics. I just hope it wasn’t fistfuls from Fred’s notorious moments of passion with a local, but rather, neatly clipped from peasant heads. There’s still a bit of a whiff of fumigant about it. Somehow, though, I don’t think Fred was up for l’amour avec une paysanne chinoise (as opposed to l’amour avec une paysanne de Siam) after we endured that screeching opera singer at the embassy in Beijing. Fred said I was being paranoid when I complained that they were having a lend of me by mimicking my makeup. I’m HEBRIDEAN for gawwsakes. I have near-transparent, delicate white princess skin. Well, OK, I would’ve, if ma and pa hadn’t taken us to be irradiated Down Under. Anyway, I know a cruel joke when I’m the butt of one. They used my exact blusher on that opera woman. And this, in addition to scalding me with tea!

So anyway, business as usual around this way. I’m fighting with the in-laws hard because of the DRINKS ONLY invite for Charles’s birthday and not the real sit-down dinner deal. What an insult! And they won’t do a thing about it. They actually DON’T GIVE A. Either they can’t see that it’s a direct insult to me, aimed just at me, or (more likely) they WANT me to be humiliated.

But as you know Ambs darling, I am the mistress of strategy, and I have a cunning plan. The Queen of England is SURE to be impressed by my Scottish credentials. She LOVED her nanny - Bobo MacDonald. I am researching Bobo. Actually, I foresaw this EXACT problem ages ago. Remember my barefaced lies about us all eating porridge? Target audience was the Brits all along, not those potato-mouth, rollmop-eating, faux-vikings I am forced to share a country with!

So. The Queen is fully aware that I am of the Bobo persuasion. 100 per cent whisky-soaked Scot. Heather, moors, haggis, tartan, bagpipes, porridge and … frugality! The holes in Izzy’s shoes were a brilliant trick don’t you think? I assure you, Her Majesty reads Woman’s Day. You just wait – I’m the only Danish royal who will score a seat at the big table. Now I’m just working on being seated Above the Salt. I don’t want to just have a sherry and talk with the director of the Royal Association for Cell Biology or what not. That’s what I have to do HERE.

I’ve been working on this for so long my head hurts. Uganda … can you imagine how hard it was to get a gig in a Commonwealth country without alerting the Chimneys-in-law? I had to practically move an entire refugee camp across a border into one of the pink patches on the old map. Thank God for the frigging Commonwealth – it’s saving my social bacon.

I fine-tuned the whole campaign. What do you think of my tactic of wearing a Commonwealth Pink frock, 1950s style, and little peep-toe shoes a la Princess Margaret? It was un hommage to Her Majesty at age 23, when she received the tragic news of her papa’s death … oh, Amber, I’m quite overcome! I was just seeing myself receiving the news of mon papa’s demise – I practise from time to time. Cuz when it really happens I’ll be dancing on the old freak’s grave.

Channeling Diana was original, don’t you think? Except that little shit Princess Victoria went and sat on MY marble bench outside the Taj Mahal within a week. Typical one-upmanship from her. She knows it was deeply hurtful to me, to produce a photo of her own parents sitting in front of the Taj Mahal 30 years before. She knows damn well my parents weren’t traveling the world. It was a calculated insult. I won’t forget it in a hurry. Ouch, my left ankle’s twitching. Does she really think that Fred will care seeing her alone on a stone bench? There’s no sailing in India. Can’t get the boats past all the people bathing. Sorry, kiddo, but I won this latest round in the Diana-Off. Eat my empathetic, caring for poor, black people dirt! And HELLO, India is a Commonwealth country. It’s mine. I’ll get around to rubbing the cricketers’ chests next time. Who’s that Paki gent that Jemima Goldsmith married? He looks like Diana’s doctor boyfriend. I’ll have to summons him, soon as I have the Brits eating out of the palm of my hand. In a fortnight!

And if that Victoria turns up in Angola defusing mines I’ll organise a live one in advance and blow the bitch up.

Did you see my tears on the news? Had to take my own French onions. For some reason ordinary produce doesn’t produce tears in me. I must have special tear ducts or something. I’m built of stern Eccosais stuff. Like Bobo. And Fred’s old Nanny MacGillicuddy.

Sweet bloody Jesus, I’ve been reading up on Bobo’s frugality. Hard act to follow. Besides rasping holes into Izzy’s shoes, I had to chuck the $700 mink jerkin the little jerkette has been wearing. Now that’s some sacrifice – we have quite a little sous-la-table arrangement with a mink slaughtering outfit. But no charity shop wanted it!

No more candids of moi outside my palais chucking out the rubbish in a black plastic rubbish bag, no-ho. How extravagant! I’ve been trundling down to the kitchen with a copy of the DAILY TELEGRAPH no less, wrapping up a couple of peelings (God, kitchens stink!) strategically so that one of the Kate Middleton headlines shows on the outside, and then going on a slow promenade around the palace garden to the bin. Eventually someone with a camera will catch on … and someone at the Palace – the REAL palace, the palace of my childhood … my cultural palace … my trope, my meme, my birthright …- is sure to see the sheer synchronicity and point it out to the Queen. She is superstitious, you know.

BUCKINGHAM Palace has pleeeeenty of bathrooms, thankyouverymuch, and much more gilt and higher ceilings than my hovels. Do you understand what an invitation here means!? That I am IN, or almost, as soon as we iron out that drinks or dinner confusion. They didn’t invite me to the stupid, small party at the house in the country, which is for losers, but to the PALACE, in LONDON, with the QUEEN. I knew she would come around to me sooner or later. I am one of hers! My family is from just down the street in Scotland from where her family lives in the summer. The houses practically butt up to each other. I mean, my Aunt Catherine could knock on the queen’s door and get a cup of sugar. We are of the same stock and breed. Just a couple of ‘those Scottish girls’ looked down upon by real royals.

I am the heir to the Queen of Hearts and there ain’t nothin’ the frigging Bicycle Monarchs can do about it but quiver in my wake and relish my glowing aura. Ha! Daisy thought she was plus royal que moi! What an old fool!

I can’t wait to have some chats with Camilla and Kate. You know, compare notes and all. Two of us have managed to get ‘in’ and we’ve got to help Kate in her quest for the golden ring. Gosh, doesn’t she remind you of me back in the day? So young and beautiful and thin and unashamedly ambitious about sealing up her future through ostensibly sincere fellatio and loads of focus and patience. I am this close to wasting a tear or two on her, it’s so reminiscent.

I’d really like to take her under my wing and help her out. Mind you, she is VERY déclassé compared to me. My papa is an academic. And Kate’s are in trade. Wills seems as dumb, hedonistic and unfocused as Fred, so I know how it can seem at times that you’re just not making ANY headway at all, even with all the head you give, so I’ve got to help Kate not feel discouraged. Hate to say it, but she really needs the queen to kick it. As you’ve witnessed, Ambs, dead royal grandmothers are unbelievably helpful in sealing the deal. Oh, and poor Scottish ones too, like mine. Those tears I dripped? Molten hypocritical gold! As disposable as the letters I ripped up and tossed out. Emotional manipulation just does not get the respect it deserves. I owe it everything I’ve got.

Amber, while I think of it – you remember you wrote in your column about your ‘cougar moment’, the um, well, you said played ‘tongue hockey’ with, but as I’m a princess I shall say embrasser some innocent lambkin a la my footballeur Ryan O’Keefe? Tell me, how old was your victim? The Swedish carny Rabbit found for you. Was he the same age as Prince William? Just une pensee…I didn’t say I’d ACTUALLY DO IT!

Au revoir, Amber. I must warn you, this may be adieu. You must understand, once I’m in with the real royals, I shall have to nobly sacrifice my declassée (some would say fricassée darling, sorry!) friend. You understand.

Later, babes,

ME

Princess Mary Dumps a Load

2008-08-22T04:46:00.010+12:00

Princess Mary dumps a load

by Toots Riptide

Hobart, 21 August 2008

After ingesting her first solid foods in approximately 7 months, Princess Mary finally murdered a brown snake this morning at her eldest sister's West Hobart home.

The transparent home provided the large group of onlookers - which included neighbours, a kindergarten class, the local knitting club as well as many mainland media outlets - with a clear view of Her Royal Highness's various facial grimaces. The glass is thick enough to not allow the grunts and moans to be heard.

The local fire bridage was on hand in case the methane load was too much for the 250 square metre house, owned by sister Jane Stephens and her husband, Craig.

"We were very pleased that the princess passed a bowel movement at 7:39 this morning. After a brief lie-down because of the possibility of fainting, Mary is now up and walking around," said spokeswoman Nina Fudala. "We anticipate the princess shall regain full strength in time for the next spontaneous visit to the Hobart Mall, which you will all notice from the schedule distributed this morning will begin promptly at 11:05am."

Most of the spectators "ohhh'd" and nodded in the complicity of shared experiences when the princess had to shuffle across the bathroom with her knickers & jodphurs around her ankles in order to retrieve a new roll of dunny paper from the cabinet.

Glenn Braxton was one of the firefighters ready to come to the princess's aid, if needed. "You got to hand it to her. I usually have to escape to the loo with a stack of magazines and a large mug of coffee. This sheila takes just 5 minutes to crap enough to sink the British Navy!"

Local wastewater treatment plant representative Tord McDoodle was honoured that Mary's effluent made it to his blackwater pond. "She must eat a right reasonable diet, that one. Her contributions sank straight to the bottom!"

The palace was not available for comment, although several freckled children were seen running from the Stephens residence into the backyard contorting their faces and waving their hands in front of their noses.

Mar(y)(ia) Von Trapped

2007-10-27T20:12:00.000+13:00

Mary, Mary, Maria ... Mary's recent outing in a Hessian sack didn't just remind us of her lovelorn attempt at a "Princess Di before the Taj Mahal" misunderstood moment, wearing a grey beanie knitted from wool that looked as though some loyal subject had chewed it from a sheep's back, and wandering a cold, stony, windswept beach ... Mary has tried to divert us from the Trine Villemann account, and take us back to the sheerest schmaltz of moments, but what does the Danish Royal Family do with a maiden like Mar(y)(ia) when her tune has a subtext thus?

My Unfavorite Things

Another fucking posy, and whiskers on Henrik
Security detail and that warm woolen poor-me fucking beanie
Brown paper packages from Amber with the fucking strings untied by Customs
These are a few of my LEAST favorite things

Cream colored Danish complexions and crisp apple streudels I can't fucking touch cause I'm a fucking MESOMORPH
Trine's libels in the press that I'm a fucking doormat, off my fucking noodle
Crackhead party geesers that skulk down the corridor under the midnight moon with Frecks, off their trees
These are a few of my LEAST favorite things

Circuit girlfriends with hash cookies and access to white stashes
School-age Union eye candy with the longest eyelashes!
Gold lurex boob tubes that melted onto my skin
These were a few of my favorite things ... sigh

When the truth bites
With like for instance the bee's dick I've had to settle for as my marital routine
When I'm feeeeeeling something creating a wrinkle on my SKIN
I simply remember my UNFAVORITE things
And then my faaaaace resumes its wrinkle-proof mask and I settle for feeling baaaaaad [sotto voce: cuz of the black Amex]

Freddo parties in Norway without the wife

2007-07-13T05:47:00.004+12:00

On the sternside deck of the Norwegian royal yacht, docked off the coast at Stavanger, the royal guests assemble for a photoshoot preceding the on-board dinner celebrating the 70th birthday of Queen Sonja.

Maxima: I’m so happy to be here in Norway! I just love travelling to new places, and of course, I always get a kick out of dressing up! It’s too bad Alexander couldn’t come, but the girls will be happy to have him around while Mama and Oma Beatrix are visiting our friends! It's so good to engage with people, I find it thrilling! Yay!

Fred: Psst, Max. Hey, Max, psst. Pull my finger, huh?

Maxima: Que!? Freddles, darls, you are such a funny little man.

Fred: Oooooh, c’mon. It’ll be cool. Sportive!

Maxima: You say the strangest things, hon.

Fred: I know. "Sportive" is one of the things I say when I'm nervous. I also like to put my hand down my shorts and scratch my bum like I did to announce my candidacy for the IOC. It's a beta male thing. Or maybe a theta male thing. Mary actually taught me how to sneak a scratch.

Maxima: Yes, and you kept saying "sportive" when you and Crown Princess Mary were visiting the EEU.

Fred: She gave me a serve over that. I couldn't do a thing right!

Maxima: I think it's a cute thing to say. Perhaps Crown Princess Mary misunderstood what you were saying. She doesn't understand Danish, remember. She probably thought you were asking after where you could plant some spawn around the traps after the official duties were over. Any town where there are pollies en masse will have professionals of another kind in abundance!!!

Queen Sonja: I’m so happy that so many of my friends could be here for my birthday. I DO NOT look 70! Is there a better present than that?!

Maxima: You like to touch bums, don't you? But you know, sweets, my husband never scratched his bum when he was preparing to be the Dutch IOC delegate. In fact, royals usually observe those surrounding them scratching their bums at them. You are such a democrat, Freddles, scratching your nether parts along with the hoi polloi. I knew it was your wife who is getting to you on some level. Where is Crown Princess Mary anyway? We were all told to expect her...

Queen Margrethe: (shooting Maxima a look backwards to whisper) Maxima dear, I am SO HAPPY that dear Frederik was able to join the family for tonight’s dinner dance and swapped places with Mary. I know it is a terrible faux pas to say you’ll be there, then not showing up, but I just could not allow her to try to compete with our foreign relatives. She actually thinks she can one-up them. I cannot be embarrassed by her anymore. Darling Sonja understands completely and was perfectly complicit with, even enthusiastic about, our plan.

Fred: To be frank, we expected a hissy fit and then for Mary to do her damndest to get here - like the Mary's Kur Comeback a couple of years ago (feels like eons!). But she was very suspiciously demure about it. Way out of character. Course she prolly went again to a cold beach with Christian for the usual Martyr Mary shots; that's what she does when she's trying to get back at me. Shades of Diana at the Taj Mahal.

Queen Margrethe: As if public sympathy's going to save her!

Fred: Then Mor got word that Mary's bridesmaid has been slagging her off. We're already burned out on bagels from all the entertaining we've done for our geneticist, then Amber Petty brings em up again. Mary has been staying very scarce indeed for days now! I thought Amber's drunken diatribe was a hoot. If it weren't for Mary, Mor would have seen the funny side. God I wish I'd married her insead of the dour scotch bap that I have to service from time to time at home. But somehow Mor refuses to see the funny side of Mary any more. We're all over it.

Maxima: You're over your wife? We all saw that coming! Look, I can understand your attitude, but dude, c’mon, the woman just popped out a little cutie. Why so harsh?

Fred: She's so self-conscious, never relaxes for a second. She even tucks her thumbs in at home, in the shower, in her sleep! Frightened of showing the man-hands. It's like living with a cross between Posh Spice, something Bram Stoker would have dreamed up if he were holed up in Argyllshire in a particularly cold winter, and a troll supervising a bridge in the fjords. You girls don't understand. It's like Mme Tussaud has the real Mary and I have the waxwork. Mor reckons it's a strain of Aspergers that our geneticist missed when he was poking around the genes for us. But don't start me - that's a sore topic! She only becomes animated when I talk about Vickan. Course, she hates that you are a glamazon and have like a really happy relationship with your mother-in-law. She wants to know what drugs you use to stay “up” and feign happiness.

Ari Behn thought bubble: Everyone says that Fred and I look so much alike, but let’s be honest, I am SO much better looking. How could anyone turn away from my long, salt-n-pepper locks in favour of this weak-jawed buffoon?

Märtha Louise thought bubble: I have so much to be happy about! My parents are wonderful, my husband is emotionally available and I have two adorable girls. I’m a princess without being bound to royal duties. Isn’t my hair cute and sassy, trendy without being too young? And I resisted all efforts to marry cousin Fred! I love my life!

Fred: Mary is spewing that her colouring won't let her blond it up. She actually has dark skin, didja know? The white pasty look is Mary's "pale wraith" ploy for a sympathy vote.

Maxima: We figured it was a version of Fergie's hemerrhoid cream. Well, there is nothing, nada, fake about me! OK, my hair! Arriba! You got me. Hahaha!

Fred: I'm actually losing my grip. I can't believe anyone is natural any more. This is natural? The “real you”? Wow, Mary would never let the real her out. My mother would kick her back down under for one thing without a clause for any post-nuptial benefits! For another, we'd all turn to stone.

Maxima: Oh, she lets her inner scrag out when her guard is down, alright! My husband is still having nightmares over those hairy, sweaty armpits she was pointing at him all night in Sweden last year. And I wish she'd better control that zizi!

Fred: It's a kind of heady mix of patchouli, pheromones and poison, with a whiff of the mould from a black synthetic velvet frock stored at the bottom of a Bondi group-house wardrobe. And touches of Eastern Suburbs whore. Bewitching! (sighs with a nostalgic look, then comes back to his senses).

Maxima: I don't think my husband has your vulnerabilities, Freddles. What on Earth are you going to do?

Fred: Well, Mor has made a start. We gave Mary a twee Wal-Mart dyed agate pendant set in silver as her birthing present. She had her eye on some of Mormor Ingrid's best and brightest, but Mor thinks it would be cruel not to start letting her down. Some kind blogger emailed Mor a picture of Mary's uglier sister with the state jewels photoshopped onto her ears. That gave her heartburn, but she took the warning! Also, Mor has insisted there's a nanny with each child 24 hours a day so they learn Danish and don't learn any Boganson lingo. Subtle disengagement.

Maxima: Hardcore! I had no idea. Well, actually, I did. But I didn't want to say anything, we figured you'd come to your senses all in good time. She rode your family hard, Chuck!

Fred: I'm still wringing wet. I refuse to be hung out to dry. I'll be in charge from here on in!

Maxima: Nice start with your choice of godmor. How hilarious that the press assumed dear Miss Johnston is a friend of your wife's!

Fred: We cased around for another suitable godparent from the Boganson side of the family - nada. Beatrice and all the Wagga crowd said NO WAY, after the way she treated them. I'm seeing the Nadine Johnston engagement as finally looking up from the bottom of the pit I've found myself in.

Maxima: It will be all onward and upward from here. Don't worry, our kind have had to get rid of strays and hangers-on for centuries, from time to time. But this one sure pulled a beauty on you. It's 'cause you're dumb, Fred!

Fred: See how much I deserve to have my finger pulled now?

Maxima: Love ya, darls. Now, join the party! She'll be in the past tense soon.

Fred: And thanks to Yehudi, very few genes will linger. A toast to the brilliant women a generation before me! Winks at his mum.

Margrethe winks back.

Little piggy drafts a note

2007-05-24T20:28:00.000+12:00

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

2007-05-15T14:47:00.001+12:00

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

Boganvillea

2007-04-24T14:19:00.001+12:00

Over at the Uncyclopedia (link permanently listed at right top of CPMary blogspot), the editors have gotten a whiff of the stench of bogan winds that eminate from the otherwise lovely and lush landscape known as Tasmania. Seems one native daughter in particular has garnered a reputation for herself as one of her island's most dynamic personalities. Check it out below. And thanks, editors, for the blogspot plug! For more fun, search "bogan" on the same site and get more on the Real Mary!

Princess Mary of Denmark

Mary Donaldson is the Crown Princess of Denmark, a title the undeserving lassie obtained by vulgar display of trashiness when she rubbed the chest of the visiting dimwit Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark during the Sydney Olympics. Being the golddigger that she is, she has made headlines for her excessive spending, being called the Imelda Marcos of the North. Back in the days when she'd happily shag Taswegian hillbillies in the back of a ute, Mary was described by one former lover as a "Holden Commodore": boring, but does what you want it to. Mary now only cares about fashion and being in magazines, she never had a successful career and loved to drive around in her then-boyfriend's used cars - not his property but he worked at a dealership so Mary had her pick. Now she wears Prada and Hugo Boss and thinks she's the shit. In a strange twist of consistency, the Australian mind-controlling media still seem to think that Mary is still "Australia's" (property), despite her traitorous emigration; as for Germaine Greer, not so much. For more on the princess's deep thoughts and friendship with ridden hard and hung up wet Amber Petty, see http://cpmary.blogspot.com.

Not to be outdone, there are some very clever contributors (including yours truly, C&H) over at the Urban Dictionary who have caught on to some Princess Mary keywords as clever metaphors for the trashy, vulgar, bogan lifestyle celebrated by our favourite Sap of Tassie and her tragi-victim Frederik. Kudos in particular to Glenn Griffiths with his dead-on description of our Lille Hillebille, the first in this list:

Princess Mary

Presque-zizi

Boganson

Scotch Nanny

Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark

Crown Princess Mary of Denmark

Dumbling

Amber Petty

Marymentary

Post-nuptial Agreement

Prince Christian of Denmark

Happy Birthday to ME

2007-02-09T12:45:00.000+13:00

5 February 2007
Verbier, Switzerland

Happy fucking birthday to ME! It just goes from bad to worse, Amber. You have NO IDEA how really screwed up things are right now. Have you been ratting to Woman's Day for cash? You know I can't afford to pay you much at the moment - the bean counters have been checking through the accounts and category "Pay off A." came under question. I've had to change it to "Extra Whore for Fred", which is a lie of course. But the bean counters don't mind spending money on FRED. Fred gets what Fred wants. Anyone would think he was the one running the show. The fraudulent façade makes me SO ANGRY. I work so hard, do 90 per cent of our three or so gigs a month, and Fred gets 90 per cent of our pay. Just he wait. Rob Roy Woadbod said to just hold off and let it happen - he'll be bringing a big claim on my behalf down the track. That's how business partnerships work. Frigging DRF seem to think they're ABOVE the business world. Hah! Wait till I haul in my big guns! Max Markson will make mincemeat of them all! Except Alex. My nemesis. I call her the Antichrist. Can't get my head around her. What is she about? She's beyond me.

YOU aren't helping matters, Amber babe. So you thought it would be really cute if we were both expecting babies at the same time? Think again! Why would I want a half-DRF bub born just before you give birth to the offspring of a Greek God, albeit a Maori one? Yours will actually be way more royal than mine. Looks-wise, that is. I asked Yehudi to concentrate a little harder on removing the Patty genes etc., but he can only do so much. Speaking of the Boganson genes, Cece and Hester gave me the best advice I've had in ages. Well, via Rob-Roy Woadbod that is. They pointed out that the Boganson power has been transferred from the Boganson teeth exhibited by Pa and then passed on to Christian, to a sort of quasi-possum-cloak that is safely my massive mons veneris, on my person, and the DRF can't exactly rip it off me, can they? The more Brazilians, the harder it grows back. Good advice on their part to stop exhibiting it to the public under a thin layer of silken evening gown. You should have seen me at Daisy's kur this year, it came through like a hologram on my silk dress. The Mother of all Maps of Tassie! But for now, no treats for the public while those nasty magazine articles keep coming! I can feeeeeel the Boganson power right through me right now. I'm just going to leave the keyboard for a second, Amber. Putting on "busy for 10 minutes" - don't go away!

I just know Yehudi is going to deliver for me this time. I've put extra pay for Yehudi under "Whore for Fred" as well. The more smackeroonis flow Yehudi's way from me, via Rob Roy Woadbod, the more Boganson and the fewer Fred genes will surface in the baby. Wha hae!!!! Smart of him to create a sullen, autistic pudding brat in Christian, knowing he would be overlooked for a glam gal. Got Yehudi to incorporate some Anna Nicole Smith genes. The slow Danes will need much wool pulled over their eyes by the time little Queen Mary-to-be comes of age. Christ, I'll be 53 years old. Happy fucking birthday to me.

So trying to ensure a slim, beautiful new Boganson baby (we asked for a girl), I started a new diet: breadsticks and celery. I'm sure that's what Jacqueline Lee Bouvier Kennedy Onassis used to eat. She's my new role model, hence my bobbety bob. Run rabbit, run run run!!! He he wish I could point a gun at that varrrmint Fred. (Sorry Amber, I'm on these weird diet pills and I get a bit of a crack-psychosis thing happening from time to time. It ain't pretty when I get my quasi-amphetamine psychosis and Fred gets his for-real one at the same time!!!! You know EXACTLY what that's like!!!)

It's great, this diet of mini crunchy baguettes, I get so angry that I feel like with every bite I'm taking out my pain on Phred's phallus. CRUNCH!!! You should see me though, I look GREAT! I swear, you can't even tell I'm preggers! Lost 3kg just last week alone. Isn't that incredible? Weird though, having a kind of reverse pregnancy. I'm smaller than two months ago. At that stage I still cared whether the Danish public thought I was looking after the foetus. At that stage I was still bothering to look as though I occasionally carry this pudding Behemoth. I swear to God, this first spud is about to crush me, he's like one of those scary 200 pound toddlers in the supermarket check-out rags. He's like a little sumo wrestler.

Back to ME. It's my birthday after all. For a change, I'm going to be Miss Selfish today, find some time for myself. No worrying about the household accounts today. No looking after those fogey servants. I'm on the internet trying to find a hat-maker who will make me little pillbox hats, so I look even more like Audrey Hepburn... I keep the hair Søren cut in a ponytail band since Rob Roy said it was another Boganson talisman now. At first, I was swatting Fred across the cheeks with it out of anger, but it got him riled up right good sexually, so I stopped since that's not the kind of attention I want from him anymore. (Breathe girl breathe, thank god I have a smoooooth forehead girl, smooooooth forehead.)

So, I'm still in Verbier right now. WITHOUT the doting husband, mind you; he split tonight. What is it with him and blondes? I'm actually pissed off having to incorporate aforementioned Anna Nicole Smith genes in the new princess. He will only hang around and change nappies if the right genes are around. On some primordial level, if the princess is a bit of an Alma Mahler clone he will love it more. God, he can barely contain his disgust with being with me and the kid. He was only here for one night, how's that for supporting your pregnant wife. So long, sailor. Uh, who got me in this condition in the first place!? OK, so it was really Yehudi, but you know what I mean. At least half the sperm content came from Fred. Yuk. Christ, he's a namby-pamby little creep. We told the press that we'd have a cutesy-poo photoshoot in the snow, and I had to make sure the little Michelin Man was always between me and Fred, cause botox may keep the disgust out of my forehead, but there ain't no botox to prevent repulsion shudder! It goes both ways, BABY! Then we tried having lunch together and we could barely LOOK at each other. I suppose silent lunches can be rather Zen or something. Probably a LOT better on my blood pressure and skin. Of course, as soon as my old boss Peter and his chick get there, Fred's all happy and smiling again. Bastard.

So did you hear about Little Miss Perfect and her underage boytoy? They're getting married. Ha! I'll bet she's knocked up. Classy. I can't wait for that to be revealed. You know what I think? That they were doin' it when Martin and his dad came to Oz with me to put together the docuMEntary on me. I think I caught him talking to her on the phone at one point. Course, they were speaking Danish, so I've no idea what he said, but still, I'll bet that little tramp was letting him hide his salami in her larder long before I got my ruby. What the hell is she thinking? Who the hell would want to CHOOSE to stay in Denmark of all frozen places if they didn't have to and having finally escaped the clutches of my dysfunctional in-laws? For real. I told you she was crazy. And now she has to pay taxes and won't be a princess and will have to live away from the cameras. Poor girl. I guess she really does deserve some pity. Can you imagine going back to what you came from!? Shudder.

I'm hearing rumours that this might mean that Jokke the Joke might marry my better twin, that crazy ditz Marie. I CANNOT have this. I mean, look, she's clearly an IDIOT, just talk talk talk to the press, yeah, real smart. But she's also cuter than me - and that's without makeup. Dammit. If she struts in here speaking French, getting Fred and the Chimneys-in-law all excited, then I'm history. That marriage may just clear the way for the big D for me (FREEDOM!). But our solicitor Rob Roy Woadbod and Pa aren't ready for that. We've still got work to do. We've got to at least guarantee a reinstated Australian citizenship for me. What, like I'm going to pull an Alex, marry a Slow One and stay camped out on that frozen piece of hell forever? I may be wearing tundra-coloured heather-mixture woolens in the snow, but that's cuz I'm annoyed. I DO NOT DIG TUNDRA. I'll treat my public to peacock brights from time to time, but I'm not giving 'em what they want all the time. Treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen.

So Dais's anaesthesiologist didn't screw up and the old hag came through knee surgery alright. So because of her having to keep her not-falling-apart-fast-enough-for-ME body at rest for the next few weeks, she won't be cramping my style when I go to Norway to one-up the peroxided druggie at her father-in-law's birthday. I don't even know if Fred's going, which would be FINE with me, 'cept his grabby father will try to make another go of it with me again and I'm not sure I can take that in my delicate state. Remind me to figure out how to say "paws off, old man" in French. And to get a more powerful anti-perspirant. I've already got a date at the laser hair removal salon, so no repeating Stockholm. NO ONE will steal my thunder this time! Goddam happy, relaxed Maxima. God, it shits me that I only see the photos after they're published. Last year I looked like an undercooked pastie rolling in weak cocoa. And the goddam household staff - they all hate me - won't spend money on razors and things I had to shave my armpits with some blunt Inuit fish-eying-knife Fred had been gouging some bits of raw fish off. His nautical pretences shit me. Sheesh! The guy's a freak. He has this eyrie up top of the house where he drinks and looks out of a maritime telescope - and chucks the empties over the edge. And pisses over the edge once he's really rolling. Christian hides behind a curtain. Now those harpie forums are saying Christian is autistic. Well who wouldn't be? Reason we decided on a chick this time is that autism is less likely in a girl. Christian better shape up since that legislation went through. Note to self: must look up that autistic Prince John who got institutionalised in England a few years ago. He was something like Fred's second cousin or something. Christ, what have I mixed my genes with!!!!

Looking on the brighter side of my life at the moment, looks like the LOOKER ME bitch in Spain prolly won't be coming to Norway. The sister killed herself. Why can't one of mine do me such a favour! God she's a smart bitch that Leti. Playing up that she comes from a family with real emotion. The little cow organized that just to show me up. She knows I could only shed a tear if I hid my face for a second and squeezed one out of a tube. Plus, the botox means I can't wrinkle my forehead even when it's a good look. Boy, is she playing it all the way for sympathy points, or what? Take it down a notch, babe! You might "harm the baby" as those damn doctors keep repeating to me. I love how she and that bitch in the Netherlands both look like they're going to explode any day now while I'm as trim as the day my gallbladder was removed, thankyouverymuch, even though, the bigger you let yourself get, the smaller the presque-zizi looks. Nice! Who's the royal beauty now, Hola!?

Sorry, didn't hear you, could you repeat that, you did NOT say Alex.

So pissed off that you've been photographed sculling champers while pregnant. I was tempted to post to RB and bust you. But you're my only friend, and I can't afford to lose you. Better be a decent "pressie" in the mail for me! Send it through the diplomatic bag. Just drop it to the consul in Melbourne, he'll look after it..... Happy fucking birthday to ME!

Mary has a moment...momentarily

2006-12-20T10:41:00.000+13:00

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

2006-12-20T09:58:00.000+13:00

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

2006-12-20T09:37:00.001+13:00

Go get yer snark on!!!

Royal Dish

A trusted 'grey suit' writes to Margrethe

2006-12-18T21:54:00.001+13:00

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

2006-12-17T05:48:00.001+13:00

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

2006-12-11T22:54:00.001+13:00

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

2006-12-04T14:21:00.000+13:00

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!

A Contemplative Moment

2006-11-28T23:20:00.002+13:00

The scene: Mary, sitting alone on a balcony overlooking Wineglass Bay. Just nearby, a little state-of-the-art DVD recorder is set up. The lens is pointing at Mary. Inside, the rest of the Boganson family is sitting around on the floor watching the Australian Idol final; Erin and Kate disagree about it being Damien or Jess who deserves the title. The nanny is putting Christian to bed. All is calm, all is bright.

Frederik is gazing around the room and thinks, "Tralalalala, all those Bogansons are so beautiful! And I'm so witty! Everything looks shiny! I want to dance! Darling... darling... your extra ankle bone's gone. Oh, it's the table leg."

Jane: "What on earth is she doing?"

John Stuart: "While you were doing your compulsory - and not helpful I might add - skin routine just then, she got the shits with us because we wouldn't watch any more replays of her crap, and the kids want to watch Idol. Plus all Fred wanted was to play Monopoly and Sailor Scrabble. He's trying to recreate the Nanoq. 'Cept I can't swear hard enough in Danish. And I can't match his repertoire of international sex acts. What the hell is a buccinator chokehold, anyway?"

Mary (to camera, pouts. Pulls lip up exposing receding gums. Lifts side wings of wig. Looks glum): "I hate my family. I so hate them. Christ, three days! Three freaking days! Managed to shop day 1 and day 2. Now what!? Fred armed himself with rollmops. Fuck their inconsiderate crap! I told them: rollmops. Beer. Whiskey. Bit of porn - you know: fat brunettes, Romanian lady wrestlers, nannies, Mental Health Nurses, old biddies with teeth stained brown, mermaids (the real thing i.e. walruses). Why can't they geddit? Noooooo, they go and get him a frigging porn mag full of blondes. THAT'S all I need. Once he's off dreaming of hair like brass wool next thing he'll be across Bass Strait and confiding in frigging Amber. I had to agree for them to let him out for half an hour. Don't the realise how dangerous that can be? It's like releasing a mental patient! Hmmm - this is a cute angle. (Licks lips)

Anyway, it's harder than I expected. You don't realise how rarefied you become. My skin only touches white Irish linen at home - Egyptian cotton scratches my skin. I told Jane to get fine sheets, and she didn't. Or maybe she's using them herself. Anyway, I didn't realise how much peasants SMELL. I mean, all I smell at home is flowers, scent, orchids and Fred doesn't have any testosterone so he just smells of ice - of various kinds. It's quite clinical actually - the lab smell lingers. Oh, and smoked cod. That's OK, I strike that when I have to go near Daisy. So this is a real hardship post, but all in all a good cause! Seen to be CLOSE-KNIT. Think it's working. Got a quick lift to Melbourne yesterday, in, out, in disguise: without gold shoes, gold sunnies, gold bangles and mica polish all over my skin NO ONE SEES ME. It's a bit of a worry, no one recognises me. Two hours shopping up and down Collins Street - it is tough exercise keeping the jowls tucked up under the chin - and not ONE furtive admiring glance. I even went to Fifteen for lunch and got mistaken for one of the street kids. Shit, bad angle. (adjusts camera to shoot from above) Where was I? Yeah. The stinking peasants. And where the hell did those freckles come from? Freckled niece? That's so bog Irish. Better be Craig's side of the family. I swear if this next baby looks Irish I'll get it swapped. I don't trust that Yehudi - Kate Fischer genes indeed! I've actually been wondering whether Fred and I should do the Africa adoption thing; it's better on one's figure.

Mmmmmm, this contemplation is very good for me. I'm being very spiritual. That's good, and VERY in at the moment. Oh, that reminds me - THE PLAN. On hold for now, dammit. Calm, down, Mary. Do I really want to share the power with those half-lives? They play - and enjoy! - BOGGLE. At least it anaesthetises Frederik and I get to look at him with his eyes closed. He looks like a cross between a gosling and a Martian. He's just kinda off. That's the most frustrating thing for a perfectionist like I am. If only I could just reach in past those pores and do a bit of adult genetic manipulation. In between planning for our fun on the mainland, Hamish told me about epigenetics the other day. I could do that with enough whiskey probably and Per wouldn't blink at a large order of the stuff. I need to soften Fred's bones or something, get him stretched. Photoshopping the pix used to be enough, but trouble with this sort of gig is, you just want more.

Here I am, supposed to be on holiday and I manufacture my own footage. Why should I have to do that? Why don't my family look after me? Do I really want to take over Denmark with THIS crew of losers? Why can't I do what Madonna's doing and have a nice light black baby? My stock would shoot through the roof! 'Course, they'd say it was Snoop Dogg's. Still! I don't want a pudding brat affecting my posture. I mean, the stoop is bad enough, but he's twisting me sideways in addition. It only takes five minutes a week, obviously, because that's all the time I spend holding him. My spine's already out of kilter what with the chin thrust for jowl removal being compensated at my business end by the baboon posture. What's the worst bit of my life at the moment? (Assumes tragic expression) Nuh. Bone structure won't take tragic. Have to stick with smile through bittersweet tears. Must remind Fred he'd damn well better not try some tragic backstory on me. He has a ruthless streak. Talk about the worm turning! He's looking suspiciously happy, little bastard. I misjudged that. He was supposed to recover just enough to become bearable, not actually become good. That makes me FURIOUS, and he knows it. (Bites lip) OK, 24 hours till I hit the shops again.

(Breathes in deeply, exhales slowly) And I HATE goddamn Max Markson. As soon as the Australian Government pulled the plug on me after an audience survey (WHAT audience is what I say!) he has the hide to tell me they're 18 months out from an election and if they pay my way again they'll be kicked out of office. So, that's John Howard I have to hate, too - hate again, aksherly, since I already hate him for loving those pommie royals more than me, er, us. And despite it being so easy, hating people makes my skin bad, and then it's another trip to London for a paste of MixMastered lamb foetuses. Fool me. I could have done the Princess Anne thing - learnt to actually ride a horse, worn scarves around my chin, relaxed in gumboots. Fool me. (Smooths scowl from forehead) I really am a martyr to the cause. What commitment! Looking good! Joan of Arc was tall and wore lots of metal too, just like me. They're of my ilk - the Saint Joans...Marie Thérèse...Diane de Poitiers. Other great beauties have had hard moments: then a smudge of oil paint (they didn't have Photoshop) and history lies for them forever. That's my destiny. Eternal beauty...an eternal flame of my spirit, over the eventual tomb of the Misunderstood Princess. WWDD...What Would Diana Do... (Sighs deeply as befitting a woman with the angst of two entire populaces upon her.)

Jane: "Meeeeeeeerrrrrrrryyyyyyyyyy! C'mon now, they're about to announce the winner!! Doncha wanna know who it is?"

Mary, to no one in particular: "Well, it's not me, my friend, it's sure as hell not ME."

Dockside deals

2006-11-27T16:32:00.004+13:00

Crown Prince Frederik of Denmark, aka "Fred":
"Hey, guys, it's great to meet you and hang out together. Wonderful weather we're having, wouldn't you agree? I understand that John here was telling you all about the red velvet diplomatic bag that I've travelled down here with. Actually a new American musician friend filled it back up for me recently. I thought maybe you'd like to check it out and "examine the contents", as it were, hehe. Ladies first, right fellas? There, go ahead, take it. I think you'll really like it. Now, say, who amongst you sails? Anyone? No? Hm, well, who here likes a good beer, eh, any takers? What? Oh, yes, well, right, yes I suppose I could purchase a few cases of beer and some snacks, sounds great. Yeah. So you all used to skip school together? Excellent. Gosh, this is great, guys, isn't it?"

Bald friend: "John, uh, your fucking fly is down, mate. Hey, how much you asking for the car?"

John Stuart Boganson's butt crack:
"You media FUCKWADS! This was suppos'd to be a PRRRRRIVATE meeting. Get the fuck oot of 'ere. We're not doin' anythin bad or illegal or anythin, so just get the FUCK OUT OF 'ERE! You're all a bunch of the suckingest dick suckers who ever SUCKED, so suck it and mouv on! New! Before I sprrray you with some of my Skanknak-MacBoganderry juice. Yeah, you thought me sister's butt was tellin' ya somethin' at the zoo. You ain't seen nothin'! New, BEAT IT!"

Tall, hairy friend:
"John, where did you fucking find this guy, this is amazing. I can't believe you guys scored like a total ambassador's stash. Shit, we're not being watched or followed are we? Man, I can't believe this primo stuff! This is sweet! We don't have to pay for this do we, mate? Hey, we've got to take this guy back to my place and just get stoked. Kim broke up with me, bitch, so I've the place to myself now. We can hang out on the futon all night and just enjoy the fucking show! Killer! This is so AWESOME! You really gonna be a fucking king? Hey, kick that pommie bastard Charles in the nads for me, huh - you're way better."

Girl:
"Really? Me? Oh my god? Thank you, wow, thank you so much. So, you're really a prince, right? Wow. You're so funny and witty, too. Hahahaha, oh stop, you're too much, oh my god."

Little guy:
"I get really hungry when I'm stoned, like I really have to have some pizza. Really bad. With like green olives, mate. Not black olives, green olives. You know, like the kind they put in martinis, but you know, without the little red thing in the middle of it. I think it's called a pimento or maybe it's a piece of red pepper or tomato or something. I don't know, but anyway it's that kind of green olive. Definitely not the black ones. I think those are from a can, you can't even taste any brine. No real olive-y taste. You've got to have that salty olive-y taste. Hey, Fred, does Snoop Dogg like pizza?"

Granny panties

2006-11-27T16:13:00.001+13:00

Welcome back to Nature: Stranger than Fiction. We now turn our camera to a rare sighting of a Hobart-based Boganson tribal ceremony. Shhhhhh. We must be as quiet as possible so as not to disturb them. They are known to be a rather self-conscious group, good at preening and glowering under view, so we must do our best to leave them the impression they are not being watched.

It seems the "female" of the group on the far left is undergoing a Power Transfer from the wee marsupial, held up as a symbol of Boganson prestige. This animal is cunning, sly and communicates from the buttocks as it emits a powerful yet scentless odour that renders its victims charmed and sugar-coated, all traits that will be transfered to the young chieftainette. This Boganson is clearly dressed for the occasion in tribal relicry and ornamentation: the over-large sunnies holding back the new Romanian tress extensions, the many gold bangles (surely a fertility gift from the one chosen to mate with her), and a little junior Boganson-Glucksborg talisman in her left ham whose dentifrice contains the potent holy grail of Boganson tribal magic. She squats into position as if to eliminate waste, however in her case, nothing in, nothing out. Yet it is this position that allows her own buttocks to send and receive messages. As her business end is only on the receiving end of messages and power from the animal-god, it is safely covered in granny panties so as not reveal anything thoughts to an intruder. Bum crack is only exposed when messages are being sent out, such as when the subject "spoke" to those downhill from her while walking away with the junior talisman, but not when receiving such as we see today. Clearly in this subject's case, gravidity allows for more clear communications, since there is more "junk in the trunk", as the father-donor's new pals would describe the speaker-device.

The Boganson filly's stylist, we have learned, has been temporarily sent to an undisclosed location without communication possibilities with the outside world until her client returns to Danish soil so as not to react to the exposed granny panties with more disgust and frustration, not bothering to comprehend the greater meaning behind the knicker reveal. In fact, D-list celebrities are the least immune to the wizardry our subject demonstrates here; even if located on the mainland, they keel over in delight at the falling stock of their "friends" as such sightings seem on the surface at least to increase their own negotiating power with the flirtatious but oft evil bitch known as celebrity. The Western world, and certainly in quarters concerned with "fashion" and "style", does not understand that there is no shame in high water undies, as is so clearly prized in Boganson tribal rituals. Outsiders rarely give pause to the idea that this is a deliberate and clever maneover, instead often using a sighting of elastic bands as an excuse to grab upward and scream "wedgie". This would be a very unwise move to make with a Boganson, and it is for this that our young heiress to the Skanknak-MacBoganderry clan is now surrounded by bodyguards.

Wait, what is this? Oh, my, how about that! The junior Boganson-Glucksborg has kicked the animal-god in the face! My goodness! What will this do to the transfer of power? How will the animal-god react? Oh, my! My! Did you see that, everyone? A quick squirt of urine toward Ms. Boganson is a defense mechanism designed to put interlopers back on notice as to just who is running things. Let that be a warning to you at home: those who cross the Boganson magic or put it into jeopardy will see a quick reckoning. Moral to the story: never get your granny panties in a twist! Or else, ay!

Yehudi's note to Rob Roy

2006-11-26T17:51:00.000+13:00

To: Rob Roy Woad-bod
From: Yehudi Geldstein
Date: 26 November 2006
Re: Next Glucksborg-Boganson genetic experiment

Dear Mr. Woad-bod,

Please let this email serve as final invoice for services rendered in ensuring the incubation of the second heir to the Skanknak-MacBoganderry tribe (totem from the Tasmanian side: Echidna, and from the Scots side: Bagpipe Bong). By now you can see that despite the Crown Princess’s abysmal solid caloric intake, her pictish stomach muscles have been rendered weakened and therefore there is sufficient abdominal evidence that indeed, our latest genetic experiment is in full force.

We believe that you will be very pleased with the results of this latest fecundation. Our medical team was successful in incorporating some of the left-over Glucksborg samples taken by the Crown Prince at his Norwegian cousin’s christening, and conjoining them with some “new” and “novel” cells in London during a “shopping visit” during which time the crown princess was required to wear a jacket of tribal green in order to channel all of the envy and money lust that the Bogansons possess. The resulting cellular mixture that was created was successfully implanted into the hormonally-induced nest that is the youngest Boganson daughter’s womb, a physical salmagundi designed with laproscopic precision by my somewhat distinguished colleague, Schlomo Feldman.

Dr. Feldman, you will recall, is the genius behind the surgery performed in utero on Prince Xn in order to transfer the Boganson tribal dental magic from his grandpappy. The Chad Morgan smile is safe for another generation. I will never understand why Jock Boganson actually thought that “going Hollywood” would be a good idea, but clearly the opportunities for slurping at the royal Danish trough are proving too great for him and his missus to be patient about waiting for the legal rights to such goodies. I received a copy of your letter to him warning him of the risks of such a makeover, but alas, greed and entitlement are components of the Boganson family make-up.

Your recent correspondence referred to my earlier ‘error’ in performing genetic analysis on a sample of DNA that was not the princess. I maintain that the mistake was made because the sample was taken from Miss Kate Fischer, James Packer’s ex fiancée, when she was in the company of Sarah O’Hare. The princess had been photographed in the company of Sarah O’Hare and I think that led to the confusion. Of course you're right, they should have noticed a difference between the statuesque Kate and the stumpy little Boganson. If it were legally advisable to admit to the error, Woad-bod, of course I would. I can appreciate that the princess’s entrée into the DRF was on the basis of the feminine, eastern suburbs princess genetic makeup of Kate Fischer, who of course won Dolly model of the year in 1983 as a fifteen-year-old and a genetic fount of paragon of womanhood genes. I mean, it was a reasonable error: who could possibly have thought that a Nadia Comaneci look-alike could be the object of a sensitive crown prince's affections? In any case, that was then. I have made up for that with regular genetic insertions. Such is my lot. She has a vile temper and it's a trying procedure. Talk about a tongue-lashing! I prefer to keep my earpiece in, with Daisy haranguing me throughout. How come such a control freak as that Queen couldn't influence her son when it mattered. They make work all around.

Regarding this current “pregnancy”, the princess was very specific that she would accept nothing less than a girl child, but there are no guarantees for these things with the host’s hormonal levels. Please have our assurances that Dr. Feldman is standing by to make some more surgical manipulations in order to attempt to create some lady parts in this latest zygote. With any luck there might be both - then they can choose whether it's worth risking a girl identity. There's only so much science can do. Smart move of Frederik's I notice from the press, hedging his bets on the child's gender! He gets to choose AFTER the birth, most probably!

In the event that the baby is born biologically male, but with Schlomo’s Hollywood lady bits, well, the parents will be forced to make a choice: to raise the child as a sissy-boy like his papa, or as a chip off of mummy’s broad, stooped shoulders. In either case, I think they will be pleased with the petit presque-zizi we can fashion for the child. By the way, you and your clients should not be disappointed: this time I was more careful not to cross-pollinate the embryo again with the “mother’s” frozen gallstones.

Please also warn the crown princess that her desire for full and luxurious hair will come at a price. She needs to continue to stress to her hair stylist that the demi-wig from an unfortunate Romanian is for now the only way that can be achieved. The hormones with which she is being injected on a weekly basis, combined with the bromides she finishes off for Frederik, are too powerful and could easily result in further hair loss, alas, this hair loss will not be possible on the rest of her anatomy. We tried, believe me. The photos from Stockholm that you sent to us were absolutely revolting. You want that I should give you the name of our depilatory specialist colleague for consultation after emminent release from hospital? My sources tell me that there was an unfortunate incident with an Aussie-accented Danish thug, but that the prognosis is good.

Please note that my office will be closed from the first night of Hannukah through the New Year. Please plan accordingly. If they need me at the end of their second Australian tour, I will not be available. My cousin Mortie has warned me against the taste of a Tasmanian bagel.

Yours truly,

Yehudi

It's a Bogan, Bogan, Bogan, Bogan World

2006-11-24T07:25:00.002+13:00

Prince Frederik thought bubble:

Can't wait to go home and play all these games with the kids!!! Oh, man!! First I'll take a little dip into the walk-in humidor and see if it needs dusting up, hehe! Then I'll be ready to chill out and get my game on, oh boy!! Then maybe we can go jump on the trampoline!! Oh, please, I hope so!! I hope those gold bracelets I bought Mary will put her in a good mood so she'll let us go outside and jump!! Oh, please, please!! Wha hae!!

Alex Stephens' thought bubble:

Where the hell are my shoes?

Erin Stephens' thought bubble:

I am looking SO COOL with Auntie Mary's hot pink lycra tank top on! I am SO GLAD she let me have it. Mummy said she was purging her closet and said that this was her star making outfit. Omg, I so hope that means that if I wear it and get photographed in it like Auntie Mary that I'll find a weakling prince with mother issues that I can boss around, too!!!

Kate Stephens' thought bubble:

I love walking around in my pajamas. They're so comfy and make moving from the bed to the shops to the trampoline that much easier. Plus I don't bother with my hair for extra time for fun. Auntie Mary sure does teach us great things like how to be lazy and let others do for you.

Princess Mary thought bubble:

Hey, kid, HEY, look at ME!! Why don't you ever LOOK AT ME!!! LOOKER ME, GODDAMNIT!! Jesus, I know I don't spend that much time with you, but it's not like we just met, for pete's sake. Christ almighty this kid weighs a freaking TON! What in the hell does she feed you!? You're a freaking butterball pumpkin-head. Man, you look like the Pictish side of the family. That ain't gonna win you any fashion mag covers, babe, but Rob Roy says it's perfect for retaining Boganson tribal magic. Even your little baby chompers are coming in all crazy crooked. They'd better work some Pictish magic because I don't want to get blamed for your ugliness. It's bad enough that I inadvertantly let the side down when I'm home and show off the real me. Now, looker me, dammit!!

Prince Christian's thought bubble:

Do you see this? Are you getting this on film? I want all of you to take as many photos as you can because I want this shit on record. Do you hear how my "mother" talks to me? Do you HEAR THIS? Can you believe it? I swear to god, ever since I left the de-yellowing incubator she has been like this. I think Far's onto something with all the whiskey. Helloo, couldja BRING IT DOWN A NOTCH? Jesus, do you not think my ears are developed yet? I can HEAR, ok? And unfortunately I can see the world pretty clearly now and let me tell you, the sights at Aunt Jane's house are pretty bizarro. Are you all watching through the glass? Can you believe it? White powder everywhere. And if Far isn't playing with me and my cousins, he's coming up with a new excuse to split and meet with Uncle John's bozo, loser friends. Can you believe my grandpappy's new teeth? Thanks a shitload, old man. Now mine have to be all fucked up. Nice. Aunt Jane's making "Nanny" Mette sick with the vegemite grilled cheese sandwiches and "Mummy" makes her cry by making her set up her personal camera equipment or leaving her alone in the house while we galavant around town for the locals. What a freaking circus. Makes hanging out with Daisy and grandpapa look that much more sane. Jeez, I'm so pissed I could kick a marsupial.

Jane Stephens:

"Mary, we can hear you. Just put him in the stroller. I know you've got a "dedicated mother" thing you've got to try and get out there, but I think Max was right. It's a hard sell. C'mon. Just put him in the stroller."

Stumpy

2006-11-24T06:26:00.001+13:00

Thanks from the realtor

2006-11-24T06:10:00.001+13:00

22 November 2006

To: Jane Stephens
From: Jinky Tuckerman

Dear Jane,

This is just a line to thank you for the opportunity to locate and modify a roomy, spacious home for your family's needs. Thank you for the offer of an advertising opportunity for us in exchange for a discount on the fee: alas, our marketing department is centralised and the Sydney office for some reason are not keen. We do apologise, that's out of our control. Your ideas were marvellous - and indeed, if we were able to give the go-ahead for orthodontic fixups for all of Mary's nieces and nephews for the barbecue footage (with Mary and Frederik superimposed) we certainly would have!

If you have any problems with the built-in extras (wall vacuum for extraneous hair-drop) don't hesitate to let me know. I'm sure this new abode with its specified "high ceilings" will be a wonderful change from your former brick one-level that so insufficiently did not allow for "light to enter in" (as opposed to "eyes to peer in" - we understand the ironic instructions completely, no worries).

It was no mean feat acquiring a house with a glass see-though foyer, floor-to-ceiling glass walls and aspects to several adjoining balconies while STILL enabling privacy for prep time, let me tell you! I guess I shouldn't have mentioned that to you! We DID say at the time that it's a contemporary design... and a very upmarket establishment for Hobart, but now that you've paid our fee I can let you know we were actually issued instructions from other quarters. That post-modern purply look with little curved embellishment over the porch is in fact an aesthetic circa 1988. We were instructed to ensure that nothing truly contemporary or upmarket was to be provided, and that "see-through is the driver". My instructor - whose identify was never given to me - had a strange, sing-song lilt to her voice and every so often dropped a side-line that took me by surprise, like "godamn that Jane how can I stop her AGEING and still let the LIGHT through, bad look for ME if she's an old CROW but I need that attention". I think, Jane (now that we have our fee), sibling rivalry is never sated, no matter HOW far up and down the ladder, poles apart, the sibs end up. (I know - my husband's sister Nancy Tuckerman was Jackie Kennedy's private secretary - but that's another story).

(There is a chapter of Attention Seekers Anonymous in Hobart, but that's outside my ken and in any case, Jane, now that we have our fee I can mention, I'm sure your family became aware of that a long time ago!)

I think it's terrific that the Danish Government paid for the privacy screens we've installed for you now that you comprehend that all that glass is NOT for your family's enjoyment, but a passing fancy for Tasmania's favourite daughter.

Remember the first Gulf War? The Kuwaitis on camera boasting they were eating just one chocolate from a box and throwing the rest away? Now you'll start to get the picture.

The cocaine humidor will need to be returned to my office after the visit - I've had a call from a Danish boat that's docking soon - they said they've been asked to acquire one, and they had been told to fetch it from me. But your youngest sister is not to be told. As you've discovered, we will go to any lengths for a prime client!

Thanks once again!

Yours sincerely,

Jinky
Account Manager, Westie Hobo-bart quartier

Mary arrives in Tassie; texts Markson

2006-11-22T17:11:00.001+13:00

"Mette, take the spud, whydoncha, I've to get out the cellie and wave before we're out of shot. Go to Mor, Christian! Uuuhhh, that kid weighs a ton, what in the hell do you FEED him, Mette!?"

TO MAX MARKSON
FROM HRH MARY

OK, U R OFF THE HOOK 4 NOW. JUST GOT IN - ON THE TARMAC STILL. FRED LOOKS RESTED. BETTER BE. NICE TOUCH W STORY OF HIM POPPING INTO DELI LIKE AVERAGE JOE. HE LUVS THAT SHIT. JUST THE RIGHT AMOUNT OF PHOTOGS HERE. FINALLY. U REALLY OWED ME BIG, BUT THINK U'VE MADE UP 4 IT. NO TICKER TAPE PARADE, BUT PLENTY OF OPPORTUNITY 4 "HAPPY REUNION" SHOTS 4 NOW - GOOD. ALSO MAKES MY WAVE LOOK SPONTANEOUS AS IF PEOPLE HAD FORMED A CROWD 2 SHOWER ME W LOVE. IMPLICATION: I CAN'T COME 2 THE FENCE 2 TAKE THEIR FLOWERS AND FRUIT TINGLES SINCE THIS IS PRIVATE VISIT HAHA. THANX FOR ELIMINATING FRUIT TINGLES FROM FURTHER TOURS. ENUF! NANNY DIDN'T GET MEMO, FORCED HER 2 LAFF AS IF WE'RE BIG HAPPY FAMILY. PLEASE ADD HER TO DIST. LIST.

GOOD IDEA LOADING THE PLANE MEL-HOB W MONARCHISTS. THEIR FAWNING MAKES 4 GOOD COPY. GOING STR8 TO JANES NEW SEE-THRU DIGS 4 FEW DAYS. NOTIFY ALL, BUT PICK ONE PAPER FOR EXCLUSIVE INTERVU THIS PM. NOTIFY THEM CANT ENTER DIGS. WE'RE 2 RETAIN MYSTERY. THANK GOD JANES MOVERS GOT LAST PIECE FURN OUT OF UGLY BRICK HOUSE IN TIME. DON'T CARE HOW MUCH CRAIG WAILS, LOW CEILINGS DO SUFFOCATE ONE. GUESS PATTY N SCOTT ARE TOO MAD I DON'T GET THEM NEW HOUSE 2. SUCK IT, GUYS. WHAT HAVE U DONE FOR ME LATELY, PATS?

DONT FORGET - SALAMANCA SQUARE 2-MORROW AT 2PM. MAKE SURE WE ARE PHOTO'D BUT CAN STILL MOVE FREELY. FRED PROMISES MORE REGULAR JOE CRAP. I'LL BE WEARING GOLD AND EURO TRASH CLOTHES. PS. SEND OVER 4 INCH HEELS - ANJA FORGOT TO PACK - DANGER IN GETTING TOO COMFY AT HOME AND SHOWING REEL BODY TYPE.

MAX - NO SHOTS OF ME WALKING UPHILL OR STRUGGLING WITH STROLLER. REMEMBER EDICT: NO LONGER HUMAN, NOW QUITE ROYAL. THEY EAT IT UP. PLUS, HARDER W-OUT DANISH PRESS SPECIAL ELONGATION LENSES 4 ME. LOOK IN-2 GETTING SOME OF THOSE.

HRH ME

Be-Weave it

2006-11-15T08:37:00.001+13:00

Fra: Anja Nielsen stylebabe@ blindchic. dk
Til: Søren Hedegaard klipit@ weavemagik. dk
Sendt: 15. november 2006
Emne: Coordinate!!

GODDAMMIT!!!!!!!!! What the hell are you doing!?

Jeez, sorry, Søren. Guess who I've been staving off all morning? She kept yelling something about how that purple pencil skirt I sent her off to the cancer grieving seminar in yesterday brought out her rather substantial quadriceps. She didn't like it when I remarked that was a helluvan impossible task to mask them and I was TRYING MY BEST and it's not even my fault why don't you take it up with Yehudi whose hormonal formulas to get you preggers again did this so get out of my face with your spittle! Man, I'm starting to see why Frederik checks out so often and dives for the scotch. God, if she would only stop calling me fuckface!

But look, Søren, we really need to coordinate. I know I get no slack for sending Miss Thing out in n'importe quoi everyday, but it's in an effort to figure out if there is any look on the planet that would work on her. I mean, any culture, any climate, any era, any fabric, any fashion statement, loud, quiet or shrilling like the lady herself. Look, it's HARD. I've been doing this for nearly four years now and obviously NOTHING works, and I'm starting to worry that I'm running out of ideas and I can only recycle the crap she wore before she got to Europe so much. At least on those togs the fabric content is such that it has a half-life of like, a billion years. So her white tank tops, Hush Puppy low heels and jeans with the metre-long cuffs are going to outlive our grandkids and Armeggedon both. You can see what I'm up against. At least I was finally able to throw away that awful blue nylon rucksack she used to use as a purse.

It's bad enough Queen Rania goes out stylishly in the same suit my little missy insisted on wearing with a purple flower pot for her portrait unveiling. Looking like a dope I must add. Then some gorgeous Hollywood starlet gets photographed wearing what Mary insists on peacocking around in. Never mind that I've told Mary that their job is to wear an outfit hot off the seamstress's table, and her job is to look like she doesn't care. Then there's "that total looker me BITCH" in Spain as I'm contractually obligated to call the Princess of Asturias who rocks Mary's 4300 kroner Hugo Boss print better as a skirt. And last but not least, Caroline de Monaco - who gets it! - is seen in the Prada dress with blue flowers and looks a million times better than Sister Mary who insisted on the top with military hem and red flowers. Does she listen to my admonitions about her bull neck or lack of waist? Nooooooooooo. Go ahead and buy it Mary, you'll see! I mean, my hands are tied as far as damage control is concerned. I've already got the lady-in-waiting wearing every shade of gray in order to look like the church mouse when they're out and about, and then there you go with the righteous red hair dye, man!

So you can see how my around-the-world stylings for our girl are completely clashing with your insistance on the feathered "wings" and unkempt ends of your new cut for our girl. What's the obsession with the original Charlie's Angels? Yes, better Jaclyn Smith than Farrah Fawcett, but still! Mary's not going to age as well as those ladies, instead taking the Kate Jackson meets Vera de Milo route like her sisters. Look, I know you gave her hair extensions for the appearance of fullness that her lack of proper & self-produced pregnancy hormones won't provide. Good save. But it's a definite look and it's clashing with my attempts to tone down the iron thighs, hockey calves, wrestler torso and rugby biceps. AND she's been picking at them, which further complicates any attempt I may make to bring a patina of "ladylike elegance" to Herr Geldstein's favourite genetic accelerator. Did you get a load of her at the WHO conference? Up there on stage in a killer suit - thankyouverymuch - and trying desparately to replant the track and tuck it under the top layers so that the power of the suit is COMPLETELY NEGATED and she looks like a C-grade MTV "starlet". Look, ixnay on the 'stensions, Søren, or you've GOT to at LEAST change out her shampoo. She gives Ziggy a run for the money in the scratching department. And just as we've gotten her to stop playing with the presque-zizi at state banquets. Baby steps.

Please know that I sympathise with you. You're up against a LOT. You've got to tone down the chinny chin chin, the new modified ski jump, the unsynchronised eyeballs, the saggy eye lids, the Adam's apple and the pursed lips, but at least you're not her make-up artist! So we're both up between a rock and a hard place, but could you at the minimum help me out and at least get a better glue for the damn weave? Why not just super-high doses of Rograine, or has Yehudi exempted that until the child's gender is determined? I'm hopeful too that he can somehow pull a rabbit out of a hat and produce a real girl child! Though I have my doubts - did you see Mary manhandle that bottle of pop when they were at the EU in Brussels? Surely that wasn't the only freebie that they were both going on and on about receiving down there?

Speaking of being man-handled, how is the epilatory consultant doing? I heard she was finally checked out of hospital. Have the bruises gone away? How's her neck? Gosh, I hope there's no permanent scarring. I'm still surprised Mary erupted that way, but I suppose an intervention for extraneous hair is a pretty embarrassing thing to be confronted with. Didn't she see the photos from Stockholm? I was too scared to show her, but surely someone did? You're the hair guy, why didn't you do it? Frederik did warn us she'd act like that, but I really thought what we organised was the right thing to do, didn't you? I must say though, it was fascinating seeing her take that woman in an impressive adductor chokehold just like the crown prince said she did to him back at her place during the Olympics. Wouldn't trade having seen that sight for the world!

Burn this.

Anja

Sllllluuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrppp

2006-11-14T03:43:00.001+13:00

John Donaldson thought bubble:

Ay, I just luv flashin' me new set of chompers at all these big shots 'ere at the American Ambassador's Fouurth of Jul-aye party! Admit it mates, I look like Sean fucking Connery, don' I? Screuw Rob Roy Woad-bod and his stoopid theories about how the Boganson magic is now compromised with me new smile. Ah ate yer letter, man, that's wut I think uf it! Ay, all this free food! And this corn on the cob is no problem for me with these veneers! Can't wait to shine these ivories in the face of some folk who could set me and the missus up after this gig with Copenhagen U is up. I bouught Suse a new necklace an me a new tie so we'd look the part to represent your product, mister rich, American corporate pirrrrate. Ay!

Susan Moody thought bubble:

hic I just love these martoonis! Happy Birthday, Canada!

Inquiry: Nanoq

2006-10-21T10:21:00.000+13:00

To: Bendte Neilsen ringstedbn@gmail.com
From: Edda Knuth Pedersen info@galathea3.dk
Re: Nanoq
Date: 21 October 2006

Dear Ms. Neilsen,

Thank you for your query about the origin of the name of the boat Nanoq. The yacht has no relation to this expedition, and I am instructed that we are unaware of any controversy concerning the Sydney to Hobart yacht race.

However, after consulting with one of the Nanoq sailors currently
ashore that I can confirm your surmising that it is a combination of Nan and Oq. "Nan" comes from "scotch nanny" and "oq" is based on "ocker" otherwise known as "bogan". The sailor has kindly taken a moment to let me know that no, the Prince does not regret imposing the name on the yacht.

I then received a call from one Mr. Markson who inquired as to whether you are a Danish or Australian citizen and therefore covered by any treason and sedition laws. Please do not read anything into the reference to "Australian citizen". I inquired (being of a scientific turn of mind) and Mr. Markson said something to the effect that there are no plans for treason and sedition laws in Australia to apply to Danes having a laugh at the Crown Prince's expense yet.

Crown Princess Mary has allowed the attached photo of the Crown Prince to be sent to you. I took the liberty of assuming that you would like one.

Kind regards,

Edda Pedersen
Galathea Communications Officer

Mary to Markson: Listen up!

2006-10-19T03:39:00.001+13:00

Kancellihuset
18 October 2006

Mr. Max Markson
Publicity Hound for the Publicly Hounded
Markson Sparks
Level 1
113 Redfern Street
REDFERN NSW 2016

IN CONFIDENCE
SUB JUDICHE (can you look this term up please Max, it was something I picked up at law school, and fix the spelling)

CHRIST, Sparkie, you’re LOSING IT!

I was piped a treat via my many sets of eyes last night – you were out there touting Bindi Irwin as a potential gazillionaire OUT IN THE OPEN! If I didn’t like you I’d think you were dumb as dogshit. I leave Oz for a bit and PR is all over the shop. Does it occur to you to take a back seat? Do you have to be truthful and fuck up the main game?

And what THE HELL is with "elegant Amber" in Versace sitting next to Sydney celeb A-LISTERS and NOT pawing and clawing the footy player next to her? HOW CAN YOU DO THAT TO ME? If I have to settle for Prince Fluffykins then Amber has to settle for a gay hairdresser playmate or Jayson Brunsden, OK? She’s making me look like an Idol winner. Metaphorically speaking, gimme Shannon Noll runner-up territory, thank you, NOT Guy Se-fucking-bastian. GOD.

NOW. Back to me and MY empire (to be).

GODDAMMIT!!! What the hell are you doing? How did the Galathea business get out? What is Fred doing giving interviews to Ekstra Bladet leaking that he talks dirty with his sailor pals? You’re fucking with my ego, Snark. I don’t like it. If Fred’s ridiculous plan to get the Galathea to measure the currents with state-of-the-art equipment gets out, I’LL get the blame, thank you very much. No-one would believe that little dopey puppy could conceive of a devious plan like that to speed across the finish line faster than he can tackle a bottle of whiskey. While I think of it, Fred is to continue to be uxorious on the record even when drunk as a skunk, please. I’ll let you know when that changes.

So help me, I am so ropable right now! I cannot believe that such a fantastically conceived idea of mine could be so royally (shut up, Max) screwed up. POOF! Just disappears in a cloud of smoke thicker than the chimney-in-law’s exhale. Well, thanks for NOTHING. What passes for DRF publicity, as usual, is of no help as Lis Thingy’s bumblings make it look like we’d been planning something undercover for a while (never mind the truth – it’s perception that counts, f.i. Danish pink press) by stressing the unofficial nature of the trip instead of the usual "we don’t comment on their private lives". Well, at least the photographers will still be on alert that we’re coming and will require some good shots. I want you to arrange for some shots of me, facing the morning sun, wind blowing my hair back, and holding the bub. Gotta look REAL maternal and loving as if that were the way we always are. No bother what the kid’s expression is, just tell them to get me in my best light before I put the little squirmer down again. And you must promise: my sisters DO NOT share any shots with me. It's bad enough I'm starting to look as old and tired as them, we don't need to shout it from the rooftops with indisputable visual proof.

Back to sailing, do you have ANY IDEA how careful we have had to be with the scheduling for both the Galathea 3 thing and the Sydney Hobart race timing? Now it all may be in total jeopardy for Fred to participate in either. Do you know how hard it was to ensure the journos didn’t twig that an Arctic icebreaker has no business at the other pole? Hopefully, we can get Hamish and Chris to call about some back door deals on getting Nanoq into the Sydney-Hobart. Like I’ve always told Fred, it’s not what you know, but who you know. We HAVE to make this happen one way or the other. It was part of our pre-nuptial agreement: he boozes up his Inner Bogan and I get the credit card.

You have NO IDEA what kind of NIGHTMARE for me it is to have him around and NOT BUSY. Could you NOT possibly understand the level of secrecy and intricacy that we’ve had to work in? Getting that ship "cleared" through the damn Navy and science academies – they’re not stupid, and I’ve had to bare two more teeth at the side of my mouth while “smiling” to scare them - that was more work than Freddo’s done in about six years, he’s been too busy crying and licking my boots.

Down to the business at hand. Are we on the same page? No-ho. Nuh. Nuh-uh. (How do you say no in Danish? I forget.) SO. The plan was: flag our trip, get the Australian public clamouring to see us at pitstops, and get the lot for free courtesy of the subterranean – I mean Antipodean – redneck pollies, so we could chock up the bank account a bit. Parties in Europe specially those post-piste (yes, I get my own pun, thanks) are expensive, even when all the food and drink and accommo and cars and entertainment are free. There’s the stay-happy obliteration component, OK? And people to quiet on that front who want to reveal the truth. Well, the clock’s ticking since the game’s just about up with the chimney-in-laws, thanks to those ferals on that discussion board. I used to go there for ego stoking and stroking. Now I go there to get some blood rushing around my system. Hanging out with the household staff with bandaged knees, thick ankles and all talking Nooooord – probably Danish but I can’t tell - is NO RUSH, let me tell you. So get this, what happened at the opening of Parliament the other day: here I am thinking Daisy is still c-h-a-r-m-e-d and then the old bat just smiles at me through gritted teeth before giving me a little BITCH-SLAP. In PUBLIC! Where’s her control? WHERE ARE THE OLD GIRL’S MANNERS? She’s not falling apart fast enough for MY TASTE, that’s for sure.

I digress. Lots of campaign ground to cover, and lots already lost. SO. Now, instead of Kirribilli we get to park chez the cheesie premier of Tassie. Yuck. He’s way too essential Tassie to make me feel comfortable. Would YOU want to go hang out in your childhood ambience? I didn’t think so, so you’ve got to divert on that front or send a mainland substitute. Where’s the eastern suburbs adulation when I need it? Sparks, you faithless hound, I’m starting to wonder who is paying you to subvert my plans. Is it Amber? What’s with the skin, the hair? The class act? And what’s definitely up with the especially soignée grooming under-arm? I saw a shot of Amber’s underarm held right up to the camera: OK, so she was raising a champagne glass, but that was NOT her motive, taunting little bitch. Why is SHE freaking guest of honour at the Melbourne Cup? Why the hell wasn’t I invited? I’m ROYAL, babycakes, and Amber’s just a royal pain in the arse. ‘Memba?!

While I think of teeth – what was it with you and "fixing" Dad’s teeth? Was that your caper? I told you, Rob Roy Woad-bod warned us that those crooked, prominent teeth contain tribal secret business and Boganson tribal power. Dad isn’t even half the weird Pict chief-type he was without the Chad Morgan look. Now that he’s gone all Hollywood, he’s as vain as can be – so what? Did you have to indulge him? He thinks he’s fucking Sean Connery now. Johncock’s wife is the only other family member with teeth like that. Does this mean I have to work the family paedophile rapist into the mix somehow? That will test even MY skills.

There might be an upside to thatty though. Without his TEETH I don’t need Dad around so much any more. I might hand him back to my sisters who can deal with his new peacocking. There are other grandchildren, after all. I’m storing them up till they need the Bindi Irwin treatment. You know, like if I fall on hard times after the chimneys’ staff is on to my game.

By the way, have you managed to get those "DocuMEntary" outtakes removed from the net? It has Fred YAWNING when I’m talking about my old high school. And we’re about to return to Tassie and I would like to pull a thicker curtain down on the bogan past, thanks, I don’t want Fred to remember now that he’s post the first flush. Fred is to continue to be uxorious, infantile, grateful and depressed. GOT IT?

Sparks, I cannot take his shit much longer. I’m going to get Dr. Freudenborg to up Baby Boy’s meds. If you don’t like having a mooning loon around the traps (you should see it behind closed doors) when we come by, you better get cracking and onto damage control. SOON. I will be the only psychopathic lunatic in this court, thank you very much!

So here’re my instructions: One. Make sure "six day trip" is touted around harder. I saw it referred to as three to six weeks. That’s not good. Rule Number One: If it’s the truth, we DON’T LEAK IT.

Two. Bromides and lots of them for Fred, keeps him from thinking he’s a male while he’s drinking in his mates’ testosterone. You can get it from the Danish Army. We just tell them they’re for me - the court thinks they’re keeping me pumped so I can survive my work round. HA! They think they’re overworking me!! Even better, so do the slow masses!!

Three. Do something about Amber. I keep telling you she’s to be my foil and uglier than me, classless, etc. The way things are going she will show me up. I don’t want that, you don’t want that, neither of us want that and, Spark, if you insist on continuing to engineer Amber-Gorgeous, Mary-On-Verge-Of-Negative-Publicity-More-Profitable, I’ll toady to the Danish Secret Service, service my husband, and have your kneecaps swinging from my earlobes. GOT IT?

Speaking of kneecappings, look into flying Jade Alexander-Erber down to Tassie for a girl’s lunch. We’re starting to have things in common.

Suck it up,
HRH ME

Nipplemania

2006-10-12T15:42:00.001+13:00

Meeeeeerrrrrryyyyyy! What in the mammary glands is going on here, young lady? Did you really think we wouldn't notice this!? A white brassiere under a black stretch top!? Are we forgetting our crown princessly ways and reverting to old pub-crawling, used-car salesman-trawling habits? Thinking that a view of the undies is sexy and tantalising? Like with the hot pink brassiere at the Slip It In for your first meeting/shag, the white lace bra for your first kiss, the purple bra for your "fiskkutter!" declaration in Skagen? I mean, arncha climbing the fence from manicured sexy lawns and falling head-first into the unkempt skanky yard? Still on that downward slope opposite Amber's ascending trajectory and thus confusing "sexy" with "skanky"/"crack whore sobered up for the VIP entry with paps" (paps NOT referring to the pregnancy exam requiring NO underwear), and confusing that peek-a-boo even further by utilising granny undergarments? What's going on - too many "scotch nanny" mutterings in Freddums's sleep got you confused? Look, would you want Fred going out to a party with his man buttons on display? Have you learned nothing? Girl, please. Once again, with feeling, but LISTEN UP THIS TIME.

It is one of the characteristics of a truly elegant and well-presented woman that she has her lingerie in control, invisible and flattering to her body type. It is as important as good posture, a sincere smile and clean & mended, if not expensive, clothing. All women should have their underwear figured out by age 35. You're creeping up there, girl, less than five months to go.

We have all seen the horrors of VPL (visible panty line), back boobs even on skinny gals, slipping bra straps, purposely exposed bra straps , runs in stockings, cellulite dimples exposed by tight and light-coloured trousers and bumpy, seamed or lacy bras poking through tight knits on many other women without ever thinking that we ourselves commit such gaffes, except YOU ARE ONE OF THE WORST OFFENDERS. It is the wearing of, ahem, one's party hats that attracts the attention of the men around you: at the office, in the shops, at a restaurant, etc. One's love buttons are not just another parcel of skin being squeezed and/or protruded by ill-fitting undergarments and dropping temperatures. No, Mares, the nipple is an erogenous zone hors catégorie. We could waste our time arguing that it is, like the swollen mammary gland it sits on, just another part of the body. That it is the gateway to sustenance for our precious offspring. That for Pete's sake, even men have them, so... so what? None of that matters when even a plain woman known around the office as hard-working and serious, is selling raisins under a slim fitting knit top. No, Mary, she will be seen as the office mattress. Even the most respectful, feminist male will - without even willing the feeling - have totally eroticised his colleague, undressed her and taken her against the copy machine. In his mind only to be sure, lest he be slapped with harrassment charges or worse. Men are, after all, men. This was ok for you back in the day, but you are now a FREAKING FUTURE QUEEN, chickie. "Demure" is the order of the day, not "baby wanna buy mama a bourbon with a beer chaser?".

To minimize the impact of one's high beams, if that is indeed the route chosen, and IT SHOULD BE FOR YOU, Mary, the proper brassiere must be employed. Padded bras per se are for selling the breasts, for making them appear larger and perkier than they do when they are not on stage. As a married woman, surely I don't have to remind you THAT YOU ARE NOT SELLING IT ANYMORE. There are however many styles which provide a layer of padding all over the cup that is too thin to add dimension to one's poitrine, but just enough so that the girls appear to be at ease even if they are all wound up and squealing with excitement (or freezing). There is also a brand of undy called Spanx that was made just for the girl with extra mushy bits on her tummy, hips, bottom and thighs. And brassieres to guarantee no back boobs or bumpy hardware showing through. There is video out there of you, Mares, with your jiggly bits moving around here and yon. Oh, oh, think you're too skinny to have globby bits!? Get a three-way mirror, then see the truth. The jello-shake is not so much about weight, but definitely about age, so even if the former is stationary, the latter is forever creeping up.

And please don't think "but I live in nudie Denmark" is an excuse. You are not just any other Karen Grovsen who can strip down to her panties in Rosenborg park for some UV rays. I mean, for pete's sake, sister, can you not see how strange it is for people that you wear a bikini to the beach, yet cover up against the paps and the sun with a full-length bathrobe at the beach? Would you please put some thought into reconciling the confusing messages you are sending out!? And the bra-with-tank-top look should be kept to the privacy of your boudoir from now on, thank you very much.

If you are done with dental floss up your butt as the only way to eliminate VPL, and you should be after breaking prime butt floss rules by wearing a CROCHET skirt over yours, check out the boy cut hipsters. Yes, it will be unable to contribute to the appearance of curves on your manly physique, but then, only Fred, if he's unlucky, will be seeing you in such a state. BUT, it provides a convenient foil for the presque-zizi! You could talk to some drag queens about what they use to fold and tuck. But I don't think anything can be done about the bullneck or man hands.

LOOK. There is an undergarment for every piece of clothing, OK? It's discouraging that a crown princess can't even figure that out by herself, but the good news is that you can achieve an almost flawless figure (NO undergarment can cut you a waist, though), no matter your size or body fat percentage. So, go on, Mare, have a sandwich just as Yehudi suggests for better conceiving chances, you can always shove it into some Spanx later on.

Well done, gang

2006-10-11T13:57:00.001+13:00

The cpmary blogspot community and its many sympathisers, known and unknown, owe themselves a big pat on the back and hearty congratulations on the democracy in action just manifested. Curious timing, the recent press release by the palace press officer confirming (and stressing) a PRIVATE visit by the junior Bogansons? I think not, ladies and gents. A right ruckus was raised to the feelers put out recently by the -parret court as to the viability of an official visit of the little family to their favourite country, Australia. So loud and wide was the protest that the retraction of the ill-conceived idea of a New Years 2008 tour was quickly forgotten in place of what will have to be a quickly slapped together December 2006 tour ("Patty, put some sheets on the pull-out sofa. The boy and I will need your bedroom"), with or without Fred - that has yet to be confirmed. Baby boy may not be able to put together a sailing gig on such short notice. But don't count him out! If there is one thing you have come to know and love about sensitive action man, it's that he can paste together a ramshackle crew faster than Amber Petty can find a red carpet. Maybe a little call will be in order to Mary's former boss, or Xn's godfather, or the other sailing hangers-on they've allowed to because of their desirable connections? Crisis truly averted?

Stay tuned for how this "private visit" will all turn out. How many photographers will be clued into prime viewing places for the group's activities? How many "candid" happy-family shots with the greater clan will there be? How much of the extended family will be invited to meet lille Xn and pretend not to notice the encephalitis? How much would Murdoch pay for a shot of Johncock holding the little gallstone-gene mutation? Will Yehudi be nearby? Will Suse continue to exclude her own brood? The questions abound and the possibilities are still endless - after all, we're still in the strategic planning phase. So why not celebrate your recent success and all the glorious options for the upcoming Tour 2006: Escape from Winters Danish with a glass of privately purchased champers? To you! Skål!

Thanks, suckers!

2006-10-03T15:37:00.000+13:00

Thanks to blog archivist truthteller for finding this article that appeared in The Australian detailing the cost of the 2005 Looker Me! Tour to the Australian taxpayer. Soon the annual report will be released from last fiscal year which will give us a comparison to the visits last year of both the Swedish majesties and Australia's rightful Head of State, Queen E.

Taxpayer picks up Princess Mary's drinks tab

By Michael McKinnon and Annabelle McDonald
June 06, 2005

TAXPAYERS spent more than $130,000 so political leaders could sip champagne with the Crown Princess of Denmark, Mary Donaldson, and to ensure her first official visit home to Australia went off without a hitch.

The hefty bill was part of a total $300,000 of federal government funds shelled out when Mary and Crown Prince Frederik visited four cities in March. (NOTE : THIS IS FEDERAL GOVT ONLY) A further $177,000 was spent by the Tasmanian Government, while the NSW and Victorian governments and the Governor-General Michael Jeffery were believed to have laid out six-figure sums, bringing the total cost of the 23-day tour to an estimated $750,000.

Two media consultants worked to minimise embarrassing hiccups for up to four months ahead of the tour at a cost to taxpayers of more than $73,000. And in an attempt to impress the royal couple and diplomats who accompanied them, the federal Government threw a lavish $62,000 reception in Parliament House's Great Hall on March 9. The costs were contained in documents provided to The Australian following a Freedom of Information request to the Department of Prime Minister and Cabinet.

The couple also attended taxpayer-funded state receptions in NSW, Victoria and Tasmania and the nation's capital at an unknown cost to residents of those states. They were accompanied by a 14-member entourage, but taxpayers picked up the tab only for the royal couple and Frederik's private secretary, Per Thornit.

The trio racked up $102,000 on four interstate flights in an RAAF jet and a five-car cavalcade with police escorts. The Government spent another $45,000 on five-star hotel suites and $12,000 hiring the VIP lounge at Sydney airport, buying Danish flags and badges, and printing commemorative programs. The Danish taxpayers are believed to have paid for the accommodation of the remaining entourage.

No Parking Zone

2006-10-03T15:04:00.002+13:00

A long forgotten article written by Vanda Carson, a Sydney-based reporter who has followed Mary since Our Gal was discovered late 2001. It is very interesting to take note of what was being said long before the engagement and the royal spin put on her back story. Many thanks to truthteller for the great find!

A regal Dane in the making
By Vanda Carson
September 26, 2003

Mary Donaldson had just parked Prince Frederik's Land Rover in a narrow cobbled street of Copenhagen. She locked her door and walked away when a middle-aged man approached her. "Det er ikke tilladt [You cannot park there]," he said.

Donaldson looked perplexed, meekly replying in English, "Sorry, I don't understand."

As soon as news spread around the city of just 1.7 million people last year that she could not make out this simple sentence – plus she had the gall to break the rules in what is an obedient and orderly city – the Danish media erupted. They were offended that Crown Prince Frederik's Australian girlfriend had not yet bothered to learn their language, or to fit in with an organised culture where ticket machines abound (in post offices, grocery stores and all official buildings).

But aside from this aberration, Danes have been fed a steady diet of stories about what a wonderful princess she would make. Since February last year, when the palace officially confirmed that the prince was dating the Tasmanian-born law-graduate, the tabloid newspaper BT, and more conservative broadsheets such as Jyllands Posten and Berlingske Tidende, have written front-page stories about "beautiful, talented Mary".

But she has a lot to live up to with Wednesday's confirmation of a royal wedding next year. The prince's mother, Queen Margrethe, is an immensely popular monarch. She represents an ideal to the Danish people; she is tall, formidable even, speaks five languages, studied at the Sorbonne, the London School of Economics and Cambridge University. She is a talented and accomplished artist, having painted backdrops and designed costumes for the Danish Royal Ballet and illustrated Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings books.

The other stiff competition comes from Princess Alexandra, the wife of Frederik's younger brother Joachim. The princess, who married in 1995, is of British-Austrian-Chinese heritage and is from Hong Kong. She learned the language in record time and was able to converse in Danish at the engagement announcement. She gave up her successful career as an economist to be a full-time royal and has impressed with her poise at official functions and as a charity patron. And she has produced two male heirs.

Donaldson has had to overcome a number of hurdles to win acceptance from the Danes. But her introduction has been carefully stage-managed by the palace officials, specifically the Crown Prince's spokesman Per Thornit and Lord Chamberlain Soren Haslund Christensen. The image-makers have only allowed her to reveal small pieces of herself, testing the waters over two years to prevent her from plunging into the role too quickly.

She has effectively been gagged by the palace, not having said more than three words (in Danish) in public. Just last month, commenting on a designer collection at a fashion show, she told Danish Television, "Det var fantastisk [That was fantastic]," in a sophisticated Danish lilt.

The string-pullers have a cosy and convenient relationship with the editors of Denmark's top-selling newspapers, telling them "publish a nice story and we will give you more". There has been a tremendous public response to the romance and generally people are very enthusiastic at the prospect of an Australian queen. Danes say this is because Denmark, with a population of 5 million, is like a village and people prefer the prince to marry a foreigner, or someone far removed from the European aristocracy. (NOTE BY VC: well, they sure scored on that count.)

For Donaldson, a life awaits of promoting Denmark to the world. She will open exhibitions, go to fashion shows, become a charity patron and tag along with the prince at official functions. Oh, and produce heirs. Gone is the Australian ex-boyfriend who worked on a fishing trawler and girlfriend Beatrice Tarnawski, who was dumped after she blabbed to New Idea, to be replaced with new-found friend, famous Danish actor Ellen Hillingso.

Some of the "princess training" began before Donaldson even left Sydney. She enrolled in a deportment course in the eastern suburbs where she learned how to walk, talk and pose for the cameras. Then in December 2001, she quit her real estate job at Belle Property, and left for Britain, reportedly to live with her father, mathematics professor John Donaldson, in Oxford, where he teaches after recently retiring from the University of Tasmania. She appears, however, to have lived in Paris most of the time to be close to the prince. She also taught "business English".

From the beginning, the discreet manner in which the affair was conducted (it was a secret from September 2000 until November 2001) led royal observers to think she may be "the one". Such was the demand for a glimpse of the prince's girl that Danish magazine Se og Hor announced a DKr10,000 ($2265) bounty for a photograph of her on Danish soil. It was to no avail, but months later paparazzi snapped the first shot of the pair, in the prince's car arriving at the royal palace.

Next she attended a christening and a string of weddings. Gone were the sports clothes she favoured in Sydney, replaced instead by stylish dresses, elegantly styled hair and a more regal posture.

In November last year, Donaldson and the prince visited Sydney to attend another wedding where Donaldson was bridesmaid. Then they went to the Melbourne Cup. Danes were so sure the pair would marry that stories began to appear asking: Who is holding back? Is it the prince or the Queen who has cold feet?

Hungry for every detail of her life, the Danish press went to Tasmania to speak to her school teachers and friends. What emerged was a picture of an ambitious, sporty, headstrong girl – the youngest daughter of a professor from the suburb of Sandy Bay, whose mother had died six years before. She attended Taroona High School to Year 10, then Hobart College and the University of Tasmania, where she graduated with a commerce-law degree. Less favourable stories in the tabloid press have suggested she may have anorexia or bulimia because of dramatic weight loss.

Donaldson received close attention from the Danish diplomatic security services when the prince was staying at her Bondi Junction terrace in Sydney early in 2001. The secret service had to ensure the house was "secure" before the prince – who receives an annual tax-free stipend of Dkr4.3 million – could stay. One story has Donaldson's bemused flatmate coming downstairs for breakfast to find the prince, looking decidedly un-regal in boxer shorts, eating a bowl of cereal.

It is still not clear exactly when she moved to Denmark. She lived at the royal palace for at least a month in early 2002 before she was set up in a $7000-a-month port-side apartment just minutes away. She has no previous experience in information technology, but Frederik got her a job at a Danish software company, a subsidiary of Microsoft. She spent less than a month in total at work. The rest of the time she was photographed shopping in the ritziest boutiques, laden with bags of clothes, or jetting off to exotic locations (Brazil, the Swiss Alps, France to name a few).

Come April or May next year, she will be walking down the aisle at Holmen's Kirke, a 17th-century Danish Royal Navy chapel where Queen Margrethe was married in 1967. It is small and holds fewer than a thousand people. Alas, she won't be wearing a Lisa Ho or Collette Dinnigan gown. Protocol demands her dress will be designed by a Dane – most likely Julie Fagerholt, a friend and and up-and-coming figure in the fashion world.

Donaldson's siblings and, in fact, Tasmania, have been low-key about the news. When The Australian called her stepmother Susan Moody in Oxford, she said the prince had been "very good at comforting Mary". "She has been very lonely in Denmark and he has been very supportive of her. They are very much in love."

Donaldson's sister Jane Stephens was equally relaxed. When she answered the phone in Hobart, she was cooking dinner for her three children. "The family is very thrilled and excited and very happy that this has occurred," she said.

"Do you think Mary will change?" she was asked. "Not her inner self, no. I don't think her true personality will change, I don't see her changing at all."

Aussie Aussie Aussie Oi Oi Oi: ACTION ALERT

2006-10-02T14:53:00.001+13:00

KISS THIS, BABY!!

So it seems the Danish court will in a short time announce the upcoming second official visit of La Boganista, her drunk husband and their fat-headed bub to coincide with New Years 2008. What self-serving beasts!

Now, on one hand, a second official visit within three years that takes 21 days and includes long, drawn-out "tours" of Sydney and Tasmania, among other places (they didn't hit Queensland or Perth last time 'round; anyone wanna put bets on Darwin or Alice Springs for the exotica effect?), and would not only bore most Australians to smithereens, but start eliciting a "whothehelldotheythinktheyare" backlash: this would be schadenfreude at it's most delicious. It could be predicted that even the Danish press could get in on the kronprinsparret-bashing, as Miss Thing cannot speak their language well, nor seems to give a toss about their country, either. No, Princess of Australia suits much better, tak-skal-du-have.

Then again, if the tour were to go through, Australian taxpayers would once again be forced to pay for the hotels, security and intra-Oz transport of this self-centered, hedonistic trio (Xn partly forgiven due to his bub-status). Hey, maybe another portrait will be thrown into the pot - one of Xn this time? Or a Pieta-inspired sculpture of Mary holding Xn for future saint status? Now, honestly, do you really want more of this 2005 tour garbage? A repeat of the Cubbie pig robotically waving at schoolkids released from class five minutes before the Crook Princess's car pulls up in front of the hospital for sick kiddies? Another sailing race attended by 100 confused Japanese tourists, but funded entirely by the nation's federal taxes? Pocket lining, freebies and "key" invites for Jayson Brunsden, Max Markson, Amber Petty, Rob Roy Woad-bod, John & Susan Boganson, the Packer empire, and a whole host of assorted hangers-on?

Unlike Amber on Celebrity Survivor (see Hemivision link), YOU DON'T HAVE TO PUT UP WITH THIS. There are ways and means in a democratic society to make your voice heard, to speak up and out, to say to your MP, "sowhadyagonnadoabouddithuhfuckface!?" just as if you yourself were a member of the Boganson clan. It would also be very diplomatic and kind of you to give the same message to their Danish counterparts, including the royal court. Anything we can do to help the Danes shake off the effects of the royal kool-aid they've been drinking lo these many years will be a great service to humanity. They are afraid to look closely at their future king & queen for fear of what lies within. It is hard, but we must help them through it. Isn't this what cooperation between countries is really about? Killing the bogan? How 'bout some international cooperation, then, eh? Hey, you other nation's citizens, c'mon get in on this, let's make our own little UN, right here.

AUSTRALIA

Head of State: Her Majesty The Queen
Buckingham Palace
London, SW1A, 1AA
United Kingdom

Prime Minister: Hon. John Howard MP
Parliament House
Canberra, ACT 2600
http://www.pm.gov.au/email.cfm

Opposition Leader: Hon. Kim Beazley MP
Kim.Beazley.MP@aph.gov.au

Minister for Foreign Affairs: Hon. Alexander Downer MP
minister.downer@dfat.gov.au

Ambassador to Denmark: Ms. Sharyn Minahan
Dampfaergevej 26, 2nd floor
Copenhagen DK-2100
Australian.embassy@mail.dk

Treasurer: Hon. Peter Costello MP
Room MG47, Treasurer's Office
Canberra ACT 2600
http://www.treasury.gov.au/ministerial.asp

New South Wales Premier: Hon. Morris Iemma MP
Level 40 Governor Macquarie Tower
1 Farrer Place
Sydney NSW 2000
thepremier@www.nsw.gov.au

Lord Mayor of Sydney: Clover Moore MP
cmoore@cityofsydney.nsw.gov.au

Lord Mayor of Melbourne: John So
lordmayor@melbourne.vic.gov.au

Premier of Tasmania: Paul Lennon
http://www.premier.tas.gov.au/feedback

Public Relations: Max Markson
Markson Sparks
1st Floor
113 Redfern Street
Redfern NSW 2016
talent@marksonsparks.com

DENMARK

Office of the Lord Chamberlain
Amaliengade 18
P.O. Box 2143
DK-1015 Copenhagen K

Head of Press and Information, Lis M. Frederiksen
Amaliengade 18
DK-1015 Copenhagen K

Court of the Crown Princely Couple
Amalienborg
P.O. Box 2143
DK-1015 Copenhagen K

Royal Danish Consulate-General, Australia
Jørgen Møllegaard Kristensen
Gold Fields House, 21st Floor
1 Alfred Street, Circular Quay
Sydney NSW 2000
dtcsydney@dtcsyd.org.au

Passage de gallstone

2006-09-29T15:29:00.000+12:00

The Siggy

2006-09-27T12:38:00.000+12:00

The following is an actual handwriting analysis we had done on Mary's signature as it appears at the bottom of her pre-nuptial agreement. The text below has only been modified in format, not in word. Swear.

Hard righthand slant
Mary is a very emotional person with a broad range of emotions from the highest highs to the lowest lows. She feels emotional situations very strongly. She'll flash to the very peaks of elation, sweeping everything before her. Then she will burn out emotionally. These mood swings can be very disturbing to her. Sometimes, she feels that she can no longer produce anything. But, after given some time alone to "recharge her emotional batteries", she will spring back into action. Mary reacts impulsively, without much thought before hand. She may plan everything in detail before she even begins, then do it completely different when the time comes to carry it through. Mary has a strong need for affection. She thrives on touching and being touched. Mary desires being told that she is loved, every day. She enjoys being the center of attention. She loves attention, sometimes she even retells stories that got her attention earlier. She likes expressing how she feels, what she is doing, and what she plans to do. She is a people person. She will work most efficiently in a people orientated job as opposed to a job working alone on an assembly line (that would drive her insane.)

The strong verticality with a righthand slant indicates someone that is impulsive, future directed, and needs to be supported by others. Mary possesses an intense personality, but has learned to control this intensity in the public eye. As you get to know Mary, you see this side of her.

Average height letters
People that write their letters in an average height and average size are moderate in their ability to interact socially. Mary is no wallflower, nor does she command the attention of a full room.

Ascending baseline
Mary is an ambitious, optimistic person with a can-do attitude.

Large and elaborate capitals followed by smaller letters
Mary has a desire to be noticed. She loves showmanship, and has a strong flair that is displayed in her choices of clothing, hairstyle, automobile and home. She does not shy away from having her ego on display.

Sharp, angular M with tail beginning at baseline
Mary can feel overwhelmed by feelings of resentment. Inflexible beginning strokes at the beginning of a word with a stroke starting at the baseline and remaining rigidly straight indicates that Mary is harboring anger, resentment or hate toward something or someone.

Beginning M has progressively smaller mounds
Diplomacy is one of Mary's best attributes. She has mastered the ability with others to say what others want to hear. She can have tact with others. She has the ability to state things in such a way as to not offend someone else. Mary can disagree without being disagreeable.

Inner o's and a's not entirely closed, with or without loops
Mary is talkative. She enjoys talking and socializing. She may talk when there is absolutely nothing important to say. She enjoys speaking.

Ending Y, open loop, not triangular
Something is incomplete in Mary's life. She feels frustration relating to her physical needs and desires. Somewhere in her life there is some disappointment, non-fulfillment, and interruption. This is very likely to relate to Mary's sexual needs.

Hard verticality and slant at inner d's and t's, like a teepee
When Mary expresses an opinion on a issue she will stick to that opinion, and probably will not change her mind. In other words... Mary is stubborn. When she is wrong about something that she has decided upon, she will have trouble admitting she is wrong. Changing Mary's mind can be very difficult. Once Mary makes up her mind, she doesn't want to be confused with the facts!

Softer, more fluid inner m's and n's
Mary is a cumulative and procedural thinker. She likes to have all the facts before making a decision. She thinks or creates much like a brick mason, stacking fact upon fact. Her thought pattern or the conclusion will not be complete until the last fact is in place. Like that brick wall, Mary learns faster through visual demonstration than through quick verbal instructions. Once she has learned new material, and understood it, she won't forget. Mary is a methodical thinker, therefore she is able to build things and come up with new ideas. In an argument, she often loses to rapid thinking people because she is thinking thirty minutes later about what she should have said. These people often are very booksmart, but can be out-gunned in a rapid fire verbal debate. She may learn new ideas at a slower pace than other "less detailed" people, but once she gets it, she can handle repetition. Some people hate jobs with too much repetition, she can handle it better than most.

Bogans 101

2006-09-27T11:38:00.003+12:00

BOGANS: An Anthropological Study

Full Anthropological analysis : Maximumus Tightblackjeanus Withmulletus.

First identified as a sub-species during the mid-70s, the Melbourne Bogan is thought to be a close relation of the Booner (found in Canberra’s outer suburbs), the Westie (spread throughout Western Sydney), the Bevan (Bribane) and Tasmania's contribution, the Chigger, and not just cuz it makes you itch. They are usually of Anglo Irish breeding stock and are generally found around the lower two rungs of the “Latham Ladder” trying desparately to get to the next one only to be beaten off by better educated WASPs and people of NESP (non-English speaking) backgrounds. They have no real tangible aspirations in life apart from feeling part of the Bogan Clan, having a full pack of Winfields, a box of JB Cans, a Holden Commodore in the driveway, and an attitude you could cut with a gun shearer’s blade. The typical lair of a bogan will have a full on JB Hi Fi/Video system, a well stocked frij (drinks & Jenny Craig food modules only) a show-piece pine wall unit with mirror, flimsy bought on tick tables etc, frilly bed covers, lots of dork mirrors, big fluffy toys, posters of banal pop & movie stars (or even worse, themselves & older Bogans may have a poster of the “King” = Elvis), walls/doors with holes punched/kicked in them and the only book in the lair will be the yellow pages with all the “Car Wrecker” pages heavily dog eared/marked. The place will have a foul odour which is a mix of fat from grilled lamb chops, cheap perfume and clothes with a high bacteria count as they were left stacked up on top of the machine for 4 days when wet & never dried properly. Occasionally there may be an acoustic guitar with 4 of the 6 strings left and some Bogans now have computers so that they can communicate with other Bogans for “Cyber S@x” and “clandestine meetings” outside of their own clan.

It is believed the initial Melbourne population was introduced to purpose-built habitats such as Frankston and Dandenong. However, by the mid-80s, the species had multiplied to plague proportions, spreading through much of Footscray and further Western regions. While authorities considered a culling program, they need not have bothered, as the regional population began a rapid decline from the early ’90s onwards. The situation reached a critical juncture, with Bogans rarely sighted in Melbourne, and those remaining clinging to the region’s outskirts. As of the year 2000, the species has been now declared officially endangered, although Kath & Kim re-runs will never allow the species to die out completely.

Identifying a Bogan is not difficult. Males sport a distinctive hair growth called a “mullet” (short front and sides, long at back). Some scientists believe the growth is genetic, while others argue it is a product of nurture, as even extremely young males seem coerced by parents to adopt the growth. Other distinguishing male characteristics include a tight, black denim covering on the hind limbs and bright flannelette markings on the forepaws and belly. Males adopt a dominant status within the community, with a vague sense of rank defined by the ownership of aging Ford and Holden motor vehicles.

In this day and age when the blue-collar Bogan can make more money as an electrician, roofer or plumber than his white collar equivalent, there is now the emergence of a new sub-species of Bogan called the "cashed-up bogan" or CUB. Cubbies may live in McMansions, but they still serve up baked beans and beer at supper time. Crown Princess Mary of Denmark is the patron saint of female Cubbies which proves you can never be too rich, too tacky, or too badly dressed, as long as you are true to the Bogan Clan.

Female Bogans are entrusted with the raising of multiple offspring, a role they perform from a young age and often without the presence of the male. They may be similarly identified through distinctive denim markings, though the colour is usually “stonewash”. In warmer weather, females have been known to shed the lower layer of denim to just below the genital area, resulting in a "cut-off"/"easy-in-easy-out" effect. Physical appearance includes looking ridden hard and hung up wet, despite layers of make-up applied in an attempt to look healthy.

Both males and females have been known to cover their lower hind-limbs with furry pouches called “ugg-boots.” While the wild population of Bogans is dwindling, it is still possible to view them in their natural environment. The species has been known to congregate around regional “shopping malls”, where family units often come to settle domestic issues using high-pitched wailing sounds. After sunset, younger males and females meet in small dark enclaves known “Taverns” where they consume large amounts of a liquid called “Bourbon.”

There are numerous factors attributed to the decline of the local Bogan population. Scientists have identified the unpopularity of stadium rock as a contributing cause, while the development of adequate social infrastructure (ie. schools, medium-density housing) may have fragmented the species. More controversial theories suggest many bogans may have removed their mullets, purchased “cargo pants” and attempted to integrate themselves in Melbourne’s mainstream population, but these claims are yet to be substantiated. Some older males buy Harley Davidson motor cycles and become involved with other anti social groups who have ancestors linked to the first 18th c. fleets of jetsom from Portsmouth & Mersyside.

At present there seems little hope of restoring the Bogan population to its previous levels. Recent attempts by the Federal Government have included the development of a new artificial habitat in outer Melbourne named “Sunbury”, but it seems this area may be too close to civilised air travel to attract large numbers of the species. More successful has been an enclosed breeding program in Canberra called “Summernats”, which takes place annually at the National Exhibition complex in Watson. The program has proven highly effective, combining motor vehicles and bourbon with rampant displays of female sexuality. Authorities recently introduced a V8 Supercar race with similar results, and have attracted Bogan elders AC/DC for a brief national visit early next year.

Footnotes: Taxonomy record needs to be revised considerably here: there is a thriving bogan population in eastern Sydney, due to adaptation by the species and crossbreeding. Prominent examples are Amber Petty and Shari-Lea Hitchcock. It is quite common for bogans to have been bred in exclusive private schools: witness Amber Petty and Mark Alexander-Erber of Pubboy.

There are many behavioral variants amongst bogans: the Tuggeranong, ACT population is more likely to mate for life, while the Eastern Suburbs bogan is more inclined to “bedhop”. This may be due to access to plumage discards from former bogans such as Princess Mary of Denmark. Rare footage of Amber Petty has been posted showing her rolling on a mattress with skinned knees and in her fuschia bridesmaid gear from the Danish royal wedding in May 2004.

Whether there is such an animal as a ‘former bogan’ has not been researched; I am inclined to the belief that once a bogan always a bogan. Princess Mary’s cousin, the aptly named Johncock, has recently been jailed on rape charges, which indicates ongoing bogan status for the princess. The tragedy that is little Prince Christian is becoming difficult for even the fawning Danish pink press to ignore. There is also the interesting issue of bogan ‘bleed’ intra-familia. It has been observed that the Danish Royal Family are beginning to take on certain bogan traits. In the extreme case of Crown Prince Frederik, he only needed approximately five minutes in the company of his future bride at the Slip Inn before a latent Inner Bogan was brought to the surface; within weeks the product of 1000 years of careful royal breeding was slurping processed cereal from the sofa in his undies, chatting with the city sex officer/roommate whilst the Bogan conquest continued to sleep. Yet Frederik's royal cousins seemed immune to the affects of their own Olympic slumming. Also it is interesting to note that footage of the 2004 bogan-royal wedding as watched under black light shows a strange laser-like beam eminating from the open kilt of the Boganson clan laird toward his new royal in-laws on the other side of the aisle. No wonder non-bogan, non-royal-origined Alexandra felt the need to excuse herself from further proceedings within the DRF. This fascinating bogan-royal trait-swapping is a topic of ongoing research. Relative information of interest should be addressed to contributing researcher Yehudi Geldstein, MD: yehudi.geldstein@gmail.com.

This excellent article has also missed the presence in the West Melbourne population of the ORIGINAL bogan footwear, a black sheepskin moccasin worn with a tight denim miniskirt. Amber Petty is one of the most studied bogans in Australia; considerable research notes have been published in an obscure journal, http://www.rbhq.net/, Royal Blue Forums, which is haunted by another "disguised bogan" fraternity consisting of royalists. This fraternity was discovered by the anthropologist Emma Tom during research for her recently published biography of Princess Mary. The case study of Amber Petty and Shari-Lea Hitchcock is ongoing, so research notes are welcome by email to: jane.hansard@gmail.com

Separated at birth?

2006-09-27T11:18:00.000+12:00

Fred's Shopping List

2006-09-27T10:59:00.002+12:00

Crikey! Look at what I just found near the front doors of the Fredensborg Netto! It would seem to be a note from someone named "F." at Kancellihuset to someone named Per asking them to pick up some things for them. And lookie here at the list, someone must be planning a blow-out of a party. Either that, or he's married to a real battle axe! Ha ha, I'm sure that's not it.

But what's this? A little aside to this Per to not tell Mary? Hm, wonder who this "F." is!? Boy, does this Mary have him on a short lead! I wonder if he knows Fred and Mary over at the castle, given the funny co-inky-dink? Well, whoever he is, there's only one thing to say to him, and that's JEEZ, MAN, GET A GRIP ON YOURSELF! And by the way, it's spelled T-E-Q-U-I-L-A!

Praha, not Prada

2006-09-23T16:04:00.000+12:00

"At first when you know Per suggested the idea of spending two days in Prada, of course I was all, hell yeah, like anyone would be, as you can imagine. And this was like back in April. So he's all like well you know we have to have time to make the arrangements so we'll like shoot for a September date, and of course at that point I'm all like, ok, CHECKING OUT. Scheduling details are YOUR JOB. Then he was all like you know we just want it to be special and I'm like hell yeah THAT'S what we pay you for baby, keep it up and maybe, that's a MAYBE, Per, you can look forward to, oh I don't know, something special like a Christmas ham this year as a BONUS. A HONEY ham at that you know. But ONLY IF YOU KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK. What the hell is THAT look?

So, anyway, he's all promising like my fantasy, except without the photographers, editors and cheering fans in the background, but for two days in Prada, HELLO, whatever, like, I'll deal with it. Then what the hell happens but losy stupid September rolls in - do you have ANY idea how bad any month except July IS in Denmark!? - and like he's all, so are you ready, and I'm all, hell, man, I was BORN ready for THIS, move it. And he's all where are your bags, and I'm all HELLO DINGDONG, I'll be using their bags to take the booty home. Then he like gets this really stupid look on his face like he has NO idea what I'm talking about - I am SO sick of that face - and then I'm all looking at him back and Caroline's like NO bloody help since she's on the phone with Fred and of course getting nowhere, as is the norm when baby boy has a hangover. So after we land I realize that the pilot got TOTALLY mixed up and took us to PRAGUE of all godforsaken and unfashionable communist shit holes. I REALLY had to give it to Per up one side and down the next. I just hope that guy I met back in '97 doesn't figure out I'm here, even thought I'm probably all over the news today. I mean, he was really hot in that tattoo'd wimpy boy way I go for that says: I'm trying too hard on the outside, but I'm all mush on the inside, but still for reals, I just can NOT be entertaining actually getting back together with him because HELLO, it was like a holiday thing, just a little slap and tickle on my way back home. He wasn't even a rugby player, man. I mean, I NEEDED a release, I'd been like holed up for three months in goddamn bloody depressing Scotland for shit's sake, stuck with my rellos and thanking my lucky stars that I got a better deal on accents and dentistry, even if I saw my sad genetic future pass before my eyes. That reminds me, I should call my sister Jane and see how she's doing.

So, anyway, as long as I have to be stuck in this hell hole, it's nice to be able to call people up and make them have lunch with me, so thanks. 'Course, soon as they buzz me that the mix-up has been straightened out, I'll be on my way. But at least you people speak English. Have you ever had a horrible day like I'm having today? Sucks, doesn't it?"

Marymentary out-takes

2006-09-20T08:08:00.001+12:00

Mary drags Fred to old school and loses 20 fans in the process

In this cutting room floor out-take from the DR-sponsored, so-called Marymentary, watch how Mary bores Fred and twenty Tassie schoolchildren to tears with her "personal magnetism, warmth and charisma".

What on earth does she mean by, "if you were lucky enough to get lunch money"? Boganson poverty or punishment method? But if you look hard enough, you can briefly see a thought bubble appear above Freddles's head, as Meeeery is yammering on about handball, that says, "how in the HELL can I get OUT OF THIS NIGHTMARE!?!?"

You and me, both, babe. You and me, both.

Diminished Mary

2006-09-13T12:55:00.000+12:00

Mary's bio

2006-09-13T04:48:00.000+12:00

Bored? Down? Things not going well? Take a few minutes to lift your mood and have some harmless fun. See what others have done. Expand on it. Go your own route. Get creative. Get IN THE ZONE. Most of all, show the DRF suits just WHO'S STEALING WHO'S THUNDER and help them realise the failings of their wonder-princess.

Who is Mary?

Mary advises Amber

2006-09-09T00:06:00.001+12:00

Newport, USA
06 September 2006

Miss Amber Petty,

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON WITH YOU?

I wanted to be able to confide in you and tell you MY news and what happens? You get further out there in the public eye and I’m having to counsel YOU instead. I tell you, Amber, I’m starting to almost regret making you my best friend. I can recall Beatrice Tarnawski, you know. I mean, she was indiscreet, but she’s starting to look deaf and dumb compared to you.

Do I have to remind you where to draw the line? NO MENTION OF YEHUDI GELDSTEIN even if you’re as pissed as a newt and leaning up against a pub wall. You are really out on a psychic bender these days – did you catch malaria or yellow fever on Celebrity Survivor island or something? Or is this the mood your new beau puts you in (LOVELY!)? What’s with this crud about him being a Maori king or something. I watched coverage of the funeral of the Maori queen Te Arikinui in New Zealand and he was nowhere to be seen. So next thing the press is going to get hold of you for claiming a close association with yet another royal family. Do you mind thinking about me before you choose your boyfriends?

Whatever it is, GET A FREAKING GRIP ON YOURSELF, because I need you to strike a better balance between being a decoy in the press for me and a foil. You know the drill, must I remind you? You are to look just slightly less beautiful and classy than me. NOT like a crack whore. At least they’ve done me a favour with my LIW. God she’s ugly compared to me. No class.

I know you think you’re trying, but can’t you see that I have a MILLION things going on right now? You don’t understand. When you’re kept in cotton wool like me, you get really, really sensitive to things like the smell of ordinary people. It’s awful. It’s like a DISABILITY. Can you not get a whiff all the way over there of the falafel that has clung to me like desperate ladies on deposed royalty since I had to go over to this freaking TERROR CELL outside of Odense and pretend to like them and their bloody awful food and immigration issues? (Must warn you, Ambs, when you next come to Denmark you will HAVE to pay very close attention to your personal hygiene when you are close to me unless we’re outdoors together. Even then you might be a bit whiffy.)

And that damn Vollsmose visit was all for nothing. I mean, really, they arrest nine terror suspects like a week after I leave, washing away all of the PR, and all the good, kind and decent hardcore humanitarian work I did there in the course of an afternoon. Medecins sans fronts have NOTHING on me, I tell you. I really really worked so hard to care and smile at them and pretend that the headscarf thing is not just the WORST fashion statement one could make – HELLO, it makes your hair FLAT. And people were behaving like I’m new to reffos. We had a family of Afghanis in Tasmania before I left, and their rellos kept being released from detention and heading for Tasmania. Ha! Turns out their credentials were all fake and they got sent packing back to where they came from. Come to think of it, let’s NOT GO THERE. Seen the latest New Idea? “Mary To Be Sent Packing From Denmark”. The Australian Embassy had to quickly counter that with a puff piece. The press wouldn’t do it for us. So the Secretary to the Ambassador invented some crap about Frederik and me arriving with a bottle of wine and behaving like a relaxed middle-class couple.

Anyway, back to my travails with the great unwashed. If I relive the day and tell you about it maybe I’ll be detraumatised and process the trauma a little. Do these people realise how little their boat journey stacks up against my trauma? Really, Amb, you should have seen me, I really was ALL SMILES and made sure everyone got a wave. Per was saying that it is really important to make these people bask in my royal glow. Maybe they’re right. I really think that is exactly what they needed, a role model about dealing graciously with adversity and smiling through it - so whatever I guess Daisy’s peeps were right to send me there. I am just the ray of sunshine they need. It’s just such a gloomy place and totally depressing and they’re really poor – ugh, such LOW ceilings - and think that no one likes them which must SUCK, so I tried to pretend I was back at the king of Sweden’s 60th birthday party when I was all totally not feeling it and had to put up with all those crazy blond bimbos STEALING MY THUNDER. Yes, that horse-toothed Marie-Chantal was there! So there I was trying to be, what’s the word, inpathetic, and remember how I felt in Stockholm and realize that these poor people must have felt a thousand times worse. At least I was ROCKING my aquamarines. By the way, remind me to remind that husband of mine that my BUBBLE GUM MACHINE TIARA that his stupid parents gave me is completely, totally, one million percent INSUFFICIENT! Goddamn happy relaxed Maxima! GRRRR.

And so there I was just bubbly, wonderful and so pretty (I wore that fake Chanel suit that Malene whipped up for me that I wore to the American Ambassador’s wife’s breast cancer lunch – I’ll tell you one day about what Pops is up to with them. Ohmygod!) and I just strode into this house where Caroline and I were supposed to eat lunch and just plopped myself down without being invited to, like I was just so eager to eat what they’d given me, and they all were so happy and just couldn’t get enough of me. I made myself try at least a bite of everything so they wouldn’t get upset and try to shoot down an SAS flight in retaliation, and it wasn’t really all that bad. I was worried when we were about 10 metres away from the front door and it was like smelling the lamb kebabs at the Ali Baba franchises around Surry Hills on the way back to Bondi Junction from the Stone Wall and I was so worried that I’d have to breath through my mouth but it was cool. I didn’t finish everything because HELLO I’ve got a figure to keep up – and they don’t have extra bathrooms to deal with butt leak from a gallbladder op (I’m starting to regret that as a weight loss regime) - but Caroline hoovered the yellow rice stuff like it was going out of style. Sometimes, she just REALLY embarrasses me. And we talked about Christian of course and how great a baby he is and how cute they think he is (FAT) and I just kept wondering to myself why they are so bloody depressed about immigrant status. It’s not like it’s hard or anything, and they all speak the language, so big whoop. Now, if they’re depressed about having to live in this country now, well JOIN THE CLUB. But of course I ran out of there like a bat out of hell when it was over, though I was a master and kept smiling and waving like a pro! My image makeover as the new Diana is totally going to work. I may just have to apologise to the chimney-in-laws’ court for setting this up for me, but I guess they were on to something and could see my inner light and how it could help others and make them feel SOOOO much better about themselves.

So after that nonsense, then I had to jump a flight to Newport ASAP since one of Fred’s crew members I’ve hired as a spy emailed me that there were some pretty hot American girls around and even though THAT is hard to imagine among the sailing crowd, I got Fred’s Lego friend to get his private jet fueled up to take me and the bub over to the regatta. What a nerve baby boy has! So since I was never supposed to come, they’re all stumbling over themselves to put together an ID badge for me and get a room upgrade so that the baby and I can spread out. The food’s not bad here, but it’s mostly a liquid lunch these types enjoy. I’m going to start smelling like the QUEEN MOTHER if I’m around anymore gin, for god’s sake. And by the way, can I have a cracker THAT ISN’T STALE, PLEASE? Wasps! What is it about stupid rich people and not spending money!? I will NEVER understand that. They all look at me sometimes it seems as if I don’t belong and I KNOW that’s not true. Like I revealed in my pre-wedding Ninka MEnterview (haha I just made that up!), I am absolutely convinced that even though I never sailed before I met Fred that if we hadn’t met at the Slip Inn, we would have met in Hobart at a regatta. Even though I was living in Sydney to get away from that crazy backwater. Some things, Amber, you just KNOW. I was BORN to be royal.

So anyway I had to read Freddo the riot act once the kid and I got to the docks. What a look on his face! Did I ever tell you how I had to bite his freaking HEAD off (not that kind, Amb, although it’s a good idea) during the honeymoon in Kenya or Tanzania, wherever the hell we were, after he got furious that we were missing Felipe’s wedding to that skinny LOOKER ME witch who thinks she’s all that and some Rioja, too? We just had it out and I laid down the law with him. You should have heard his pathetic arguments to make me make concessions. I DON’T THINK SO, BABYCAKES! WHO was the one who gave up the most beautiful country in the world for a cold piece of Siberia and slow residents? HUH? WHO was the one who gave up cool, hip friends for his hangers-on? I was like THAT with Siimon Reynolds donchaknow. WHO was the one who had to get fat because of her pregnancy? WHO was the one who had to learn a new, stupid, impossible language? WHO was the one who had to endure his indecision and waffling while waiting in stupid Paris teaching stupid idiot French people English? ME, big boy! Me me me me ME! Not him. Me. He’s had to do NOTHING. So I’m just evening the score. Plus, if he cuts into my clothing budget anymore with his liquor bills someone’s going to have to report to HRH Mary Anonymous and say, “hi, I’m Fred, and I’m a scotch-aholic and afraid of both my mummy and my Mor!” I swear he has totally hijacked that stuffed polar bear toy I gave the baby for Christmas and sleeps with it like it’s a damn body pillow. GROW UP, KIDDO AND MEET YOUR DADDY, er, MAMA!

Listen, do NOT tell this to anyone, but I think I should have gone with an American accent at my public debut. I really like it a lot and think it fits. Which is ok, because Judy Davis does, too, and she is totally smart and respected. I’m serious, I cannot keep this Euristocratic tra-la-la bullshit up much longer. I’m NOT talking about bogan versions like from the stupid southern part, but the Newport accent is KILLER. You should hear people here, it’s like their lower jaw is frozen and it just OOOOOOZES class. It almost sounds as if people are putting me - I mean one - down, which of course can come in handy, but it also makes you look like you might have tetanus. It’s kinda English accent-y but it’s not nearly as hard. You just need to tense your muscles – which I do more and more these days – and strain to get the words out, preferably with your chin held up – which I ALSO ALREADY DO! Did you know Alistair Cook from “Letter from America” was acksherly English? And his real name was ALFRED? He was as much of a come-lately as YOU Amber! Maybe I can just make a smooth transition to Newport-speak in a really methodical and imperceptible way in my future public appearances in front of the Slow Ones. They’d never realize it, anyway. Like, remember the time when that asshole actually asked what I thought of the Tasmanian Devils at the zoo and I had to remind him, HELLO, DINGDONG, could you maybe next time listen to my speech that I just gave, cause I kinda lay it all out in there. GOD!

But I’ve mostly just made an appearance here to scare Fred into staying in line. I’m heading over to New York as soon as the club babysitter arrives. I’ve confirmed with them that she must be ugly and fat even if that’s an extra charge. I have GOT to get out of here and get some clothes and chat with Yehudi – he has NOT been returning my calls or emails. He’s slinking around thinking he can get away with inserting rejigged Kate Fischer genes into my baby. I checked out her rellos and they’re at least as scary as Dad’s teeth. OK, maybe they have similar genes. Her mum Pru Goward has been sleeping with the Prime Minister for decades. Some feminist. I NEED Yehudi unfortunately. He’s the only unethical enough geneticist I can locate outside the Balkans. And I’m not risking unwashed Albanian or Romanian genes in my next baby.

So Amber whose genes should I get the Danish Secret Service to steal for the next bub? I was thinking Maori royalty. What do you think? Give Daisy a fright!! I’d love that.

Keeping it real,
ME

Atonement

2006-07-21T03:20:00.001+12:00

Our Mary
Who art in Denmark, unflattering be thy clothes
Thy skin is pale, thy hair is flat
Overseas, as it was Down Under
You lack, we say, some fashion sense
But forgive us our opinions
As we forgive those who hold our opinions against us
And lead us not into believing rubbish
But deliver us from Amber
For thine is a social climber
A vaccuous bogan
And a scheming grifter
Forever and ever
Amen.

Mary thanks Anna Johanssen

2006-07-08T08:25:00.000+12:00

Hobart
20 March 2006

Dear Anna,

What can I say except THANK YOU AND OH MY GOD THIS IS GOING SO MUCH BETTER THAN I EVER PLANNED! You are a genius, lady, and I am LOVING it. LOVE LOVE LOVING it. And the best part is that NO ONE is the wiser as to our little machinations! LOL!

From the second Joachim showed me and Fred a photograph of his new little French croissant from their holiday last summer I knew SOMETHING had to be done about this. It was as if Fred’s alcoholic, perverted beanpole-farmer brother of his had just shown me a freaking MIRROR! Except this was like one of those magic mirrors that makes you look even better than you are in real life even if in your real life you have spent the equivalent of the Gross Domestic Product of Chile on your appearance makeover. It was FREAKY! (I wish they really made those magic mirrors in real life, I’d love to give them to my family as Christmas presents.) Plus her birthday is the day after mine, but in a better Chinese New Year, the BITCH. GOD, I was literally starting to shake in my Ugg boots.

And Jokke the joke-y, as I call him, was just going on and on about how SWEET and KIND and OPEN and HAPPY and shit this girl is. Oh, and how well-educated and well-traveled she is and oh she speaks a million languages, too. LA-DI-DAMN-DA! Well, if that isn’t bad enough that he has a taste for truly and deeply wonderful women who bring him great joy, he also had to blabber on about how she has a real job that he didn’t have to get for her and how she pays her own rent and has some crazy natural maternal instinct or whatever they call that, well, you can imagine that I was checking out and feeling faint by this time. I almost thought the jig was up when I heard that her dog has a better name than mine and it’s actually related to something besides a failed marketing campaign (which was Siimon’s fault, by the way!). No way is sister going to ruin the good gig I’VE got going, so I called you. It’s bad enough she already has the more Danish version of my name. If our little operation hadn’t worked, Anna, that bitch would fit right into Danish society so fast and I would be forgotten in the flurry of “Our Jokke’s Hard-Working Delightful Princesses: A Perfect Fit in Denmark” publicity. Can you imagine if frog girl started blabbering in Danish in six weeks time, and doing it all the while wearing Danish fashions? I’d be TOAST.

Now since you snuck up on me leaving work to have your goon photographer take pictures of me with a scowl on my face and some “back off” body language for the world, I figure you owe me BIG. No, it’s not enough that later I did pose for your cameras “going to work” and doing all those things that other young women seem to do ostensibly to be SELF-SUFFICIENT but really just do to make me look BAD. No, you needed to really make restitution. So I must say, Anna, congrats babe. This is all just so brilliant, especially in light of the fact that my thugs on the street in Oz can’t seem to contain Amber’s ramblings that are going to expose my strategic operating techniques during one 2000 Olympics. WOULD YOU JUST GET A NEW INAPPROPRIATE BOYFRIEND AND SHUT THE HELL UP! GOD.

I never thought I’d be able to successfully get her address from our little potato farmer, but his “staff” is so damn discombobulated since China Girl left him for that hottie who filmed my docuMEntary, that it was easier than I thought. Plus, Nikolaj knows where everything is kept and is just too young to know the truth about Auntie Mary’s strategies, so it all turned out to be a walk in the park. Nothing like pretending you can’t wait to get out to the Jutland countryside and have a hyggelig weekend together. WHATEVER. Glad that nightmare is over! Maybe you’d like to look into having a COOK and maybe someone to take the DISHES AWAY? GOD. And could you be any further away from a Chanel boutique and civilisation? It’s like spending a weekend with Patty or Jane as they try to make dinner THEMSELVES, AND shut the kids and their hubbies up. I do NOT miss Bogan World AT ALL.

Anyway, thank you for being so amenable to this scoop and for putting up with us telling Se og Hoer, too. I know they’re scummy, but not the same scum level as EB, so I knew they had to be in on it, just a day after you, as per our agreement, just to give our little Marie the right patina. My God, she was more of a bait-taker than I ever thought she’d be! HA! Blah blah blah blah blah, did you just love it? I was HOWLING! And what is even better is that everyone is talking about ME because of the sort of resemblance even though her features are softer and more approachable, but they don’t say that do they? NO! They just talk about how much we look alike!! And that our birthdays are practically the same. It’s all about ME, still!

And if that isn’t already pretty damn perfect, all the magazines are covering her and what you said was just a simple 5 minute conversation with a really nice girl who was just overflowing with charm and happiness (GAG me, Anna), you’ve all succeeded in making her look like a loose-lipped idiot-blabbermouth. GENIUS!! Talk, talk, talk (or seem like it) all you want, girlie, it doesn’t phase me ONE BIT. Because no longer should I worry that you and Fred and Joachim and the Chimney-in-laws are going to all speak French together and leave me the freak out of the goddamn loop. Joke’s on YOU, HONEY! Buh-bye!

Everyone is talking about how DIGNIFIED I am and how DISCREET I was during the “entrapment years” or dating years as BB should continue to call them or else I will sue your ass. If any fool ever thought for one half second that I was strategically planning my way into Fred’s bank account, er, heart, then our little French Better-Than-Mary makes me look quite WONDERFUL and PERFECT, DOESN’T SHE? Eat my dirt, mate! Holy hell, people are finally comparing me – favorably this time! - to the original little miss perfect, our “beloved” Alexandra! Does it get better than this?! LOL!

Yes, it DOES! You’ve managed to make this wonderful media madness so furious that I was able to sneak down to Tasmania with the kid. No one will ever pay attention to the fact that I rented a killer house on an isolated beach to get away from that F’ED UP DANISH WINTER crap. No one will ever pay attention to the fact that my kid is only cute with a LACE BONNET on his head to disguise the big ears and bald skull (thanks for nothing DAD). OK, so I had to pass on the Commonwealth Games because the “real” royalty in Australia was there. No way sister is going to try and STEAL MY THUNDER, so I just stayed at the house. Someone might want to write me a little THANK YOU NOTE, mm?

Oh, the relaxation I’m enjoying here at home! It’s like all the stupid “jobs” that Fred got for me through his friends are forgotten! And forgotten that I got him to subsidize me in stupid Paris after I’d already shown up at his door-step in December 2001 and he was all like, well, um, ok, but you can’t live in Denmark I have a place in Paris I’ll let you stay in. Score! (Or so I thought, it’s in some CRAPPY weird UN-glamourous part of town, thanks for nothing Freddo, think I’ll be coming to Denmark anyway!) Totally forgotten that I couldn’t speak Danish until after the wedding! Totally forgotten that I hate his royal cousins who think they’re better than anyone in the world, AS IF. Totally forgotten about my family’s slurping at the trough and free professorships and central Copenhagen flats. Totally forgotten about my stupid ass best friend. Totally forgotten about my manly physique and once tragic weight and skin tone. And totally forgotten that his mother engaged us after I impressed her with my “discretion” – LOL! And totally forgotten everything I said about modern monarchies because well, I’ll admit that’s a hard one and would force me to give up everything COOL in my life like free clothes, and slaves, I mean servants, and horse riding, and shit. That would SUCK. NO WAY I’m living the life of my sisters serving up Hamburger Helper to snot-nose rug rats in stained op-shop clothes with some plumber I’m forced to sleep with yelling at me if it was me who spent the money for a new roof on a new purse as if that is something that you should EVER have to JUSTIFY. WHATEVER. I’d rather be stoned to death by Miuccia Prada herself, for f’s sake.

So good job, but now burn this letter. It was written in confidence and if you decide to cross me and to print it, so help me, I will open the gates of Hell so fast on your crazy ass your Billed won’t know it’s Bladet from it’s elbow. GOT IT?

MRH Mary

Fig Jam

2006-07-08T08:17:00.000+12:00

Accounts of her vary
but we should be chary
of Scary Mary
her rellos are lairy
her dad is hairy
her husband's a fairy!

Nanny MacGillicuddy reaches out to Wee Freddie

2006-07-08T07:31:00.001+12:00

The soundwaves were rusty with salt air and age, and the accent thick but unmistakeable....it was a Channel, seeking her voice, and rather desperately so...

Saint Aidan’s Home for the Elderly Impoverished, Shetland Island, Scotland

Dear Wee Freddie,

Dear Boy, I hope you don’t mind my calling you “wee Freddie” for it’s what I’ve called you these 38 years – even though you are now as fine a figure of a man as I’ve ever known. Aye!

Dear Laddie, please forgive your loving (but firm!) auld nanny for only now making contact with you. The post is slow in these remote parts and the price of a stamp has gone up terrifically, to something well beyond what I can afford more than once a year.

I know my memory isn’t what it used to be, but I simply had no recollection of your getting married – in my mind’s eye, you’re still a wee laddie ! – so what was my surprise to see you with your own wee babe on the telly on Saturday! No-one else here knew who you were – but I recognised you at once! That’s my wee Freddie, said I – he hasn’t changed since I told him there was no more porridge for him, and he burst into tears, when you were a bairn of but two years old!

And what a surprise for me to learn that your bride was a bonnie Scots lass! And one whose roots lie not so far from these isles. Aye, laddie, it seems her grandparents were humble fisher-folk in these very parts! Some of the older folk here remember them hauling in their cod-catch, big-handed folk they were, able to pull in a full net with their bare hands, even as wee ones, their teeth arming them against the cold, salty wind, whether it came from the north or the east – lucky thing their teeth could turn any way to face that cruel wind.

I remember your telling me, Wee One, that you could have any girl in the whole world as your bride, any lassie at all, as long as she wasn’t Danish. And to think, that of all the billions of funny foreign people in this world – you chose a Scots lassie! Aye, lad, you know where to find comfort in a cold, cruel world; you haven’t forgotten how I used to hold your hand and press you to my bosom when you wept at not seeing your Mor and Papa for days on end. Elspeth MacGillicuddy isn’t one to brag – but there’s nothing like a good Scotswoman’s bosom when a man weeps at life’s harshness!

Well, wee Freddie, I was the star of the day, that Saturday 21st January, once folk here believed that I knew you. “I know him, all right, I changed his nappies from the day he was born, there’s no-one who knows him like his old Nanny MacGillicuddy!” said I. Then I told them all the naughty things you used to do – like the time you played Tarzan in the Great Hall at Fredensborg, and without a stitch of clothing on! “Och” said I. “Let the Wee One have his fun now, for sure when he’s a grown-up lad there’ll be no more of it! He’ll be years and years in the Navy, like our Prince Charles, or fighting a war, like our Prince Andrew. Many a time I told you the value of hard work, wee Fred. The devil makes mischief for idle hands, said I. Idle, my wee Freddie will never be, sure as my name’s Elspeth MacGillicuddy!

Well do I remember also the day you stole your Mormor Ingrid’s tulip bulbs and stuffed them in the exhaust pipe of her Bentley! Your blue eyes sparkled at your clever trick! She had to be driven to her engagement in Cook Jacobsen’s Volkswagen. What fun, trying a new car – you went along too, just for the fun of it, but you seemed a bit unhappy that the car didn’t go fast enough. “Is this really a car, or just a toy thing? It’s slower than an escargot,” you wailed.

Of course, you would never have guessed, naughty laddie, that Mormor’s Bentley would never run again. But anyway, you learned a very important lesson from your little prank : it taught your family that they must have a whole fleet of cars, in case one broke down, a lesson I think you never forgot. One car is not enough. Even two – you need close to a dozen cars to be sure you get to your Important Events on time. And don't try to do too many Engamements at once - it mights tire those cars down!

Well, as I recall, your family bought three Mercedes to replace that auld Bentley, and of course, it was an occasion for a party. Your dear Mor the Queen does so love to dress up! There she was in her floor-length frock, her jewels and her furs, and your Papa provided three bottles of the best French champagne, one to christen each car with. The lovely spring weather added to the joy. It was the day of your birthday, Freddie my boy, and the Foreign Minister and the whole Diplomatic Corps had prepared a big reception in your honour; you were so looking forward to it, even though you promised me that you wouldn’t touch the demon alcohol that I afeared would be flowing there!

But you put your foot down, showing the manly resolve that has surely only grown with the years. “I’ll never miss a Christening, Nanny,” you said. “And Mor and Papa know how I love cars, so even if I can’t drive, I’ve been named their sponsor! You wouldn’t believe that I’d miss such an occasion, Hankie, would you?” You stood there, your eyes wet with tears of pride, as you were named sponsor of the cars, and glad was I that you missed that foreign thingamejig with the demon liquor. I knew than that my lad would always put his duty before any fun and games!Forgive my old mind wandering back to happier times, Wee One. I return to last Saturday. “But is it a real royal family?” folk here said. “Where’s the Queen? Or Prince Charles, or Philip, or Anne? Why aren’t they there?” Much trouble I had to explain to them, Wee One, that your family was more established than ours! That you count among your ancestors Gorm the Old! “Gorm ‘oo?” said one. “Plenty of old folk round these parts, but no Gorm that we know! Is it old Norm you mean, the crofter on the other side o’ th’isle?”

I can tell you, those happy auld days in the palace seemed far away then, as I huddled with the other inmates here, trying to keep warm, watching on our sturdy Black and white set, mouths open, and not a tooth in sight!And even on our tiny black and white set, I could see that it was a beautiful ceremony. None of those fancy flowers or funny business that they have in the Cof E, let alone Rome! Those wee Scots bluebells in the homey pots were all these old eyes could see, and happy I am that you are keeping the lessons you learned at your old Nanny’s knees – thrift! That’s wee Freddie, said I. He wouldn’t spend ha’penny on anything not needed! I showed him how to darn clothes so that they’d last 30 years! No fancy togs for him! He wouldn’t stand for it.

And I ne’er heard you speak the whole time but I know you remembered my other lesson – do not mumble! Speak clearly and firmly – the Guid Lord gave you a voice – use it!My auld eyes knew your Mor and Papa at once, but I couldn’t find your Mormor – where was she, and how is she keeping? I am sure that we would have many memories and things to share, being of the same age and all; our lives are probably very much the same.

After it was all over and I’d dried these old eyes, Norm the Old came hobbling over and showed me the guest list. Well, I can’t afford any new specs, no, not even NHS ones, and the auld ones have to do; how I wish we could darn specs the way we darn clothes, to make them last for years! Of course, as I brought you up to do, you’d have sent my invitation by third-class post, and that and the remoteness of these parts must explain why I never did receive my invitation.

But I managed to make out, with Norm the Old’s help, that there was a knees-up in the evening and that you had been your usual firm self, very decided, that the staff must not attend.Dear Wee One, you haven’t forgotten what I taught you about the Guid Lord having a place for every one of us, and that we all must stay exactly there!

How well I remember, when you were born, that you Dear Parents invited me to the after-party. Well, those were different times, and as your father would say : “Autres temps, autres moeurs”. That was what they called the “Permissive Era” or the “Swinging Sixties”, and well rid of them, we are! I felt so out of place at the knees-up after your own baptism, with all those lovely-looking ladies in their jewels, and me in my old, well-darned cardie, my brogues and kilt. I remember your dear Papa, a true nobleman of the old school, in the spirit of the Auld Alliance between France and Scotland, inviting me to dance the Schottische with him. Oh, he did whirl me around the dance floor! But still, it wasn’t right, a humble helper as I was proud and happy to be, dancing with a Prince! It’s one thing to change a prince’s nappies, but another thing to dance with one. I am so glad you have rid the palace of those “permissive” or “progressive” ideas and returned to the Auld Ways, Wee One.

So when folk here say you have forgotten me, I don’t believe a word they say, for forgotten my teachings you have not! Frugality, resolution, firmness with staff – all these are plain to see, as plain as the nose on my old face.Some wicked tongues here, Norm the Old especially, said you looked like you might enjoy a drop of whisky. “Not my Wee One!” said I. He promised me when he was just a laddie that he’d never touch the stuff and to this day, I am sure the Demon Alcohol has never dimmed your sweet blue eys.

Norm the Old also told me you had a nanny, a bonnie young lass called Missie, for your own wee one. Dear Freddie, are you sure such a young, spirited and beautiful girl will exert the right kind of influence on the lad? Forgive me, but I don’t understand why you would choose a buxom lass only out of the cradle herself, rather than call on your old Nanny MacGillicuddy for help in instilling principles and values in the bairn. What can she offer that I cannot, though my hands tremble with age? My hearing is not so bad that I wouldn’t hear the wee one’s crying, and rush to comfort him, as I did to you, when you cried, and cried, and cried as a lad. Your Papa commended me for my patience with all your crying – and patience is not a virtue of the young. So wee Freddie, if Missie disappoints, you now know where a firm hand, a comforting cardie and an absorbant bosom can still be found.

Wee Freddie, my own bonnie prince, once this reaches you (since it’s overseas – and it is - I don’t care what they say about this “Europe” business, I can only afford a fourth-class stamp) please do tell me about your lovely Scots wife and the bairn.I would be most humbly grateful for any word – and it would be the most exciting event at Saint Aidan’s since Norm the Old took a bonnie boat to the mainland for his hip replacement.

Your ever loving,
E. MacGillicuddy (“Hankie” or “Nanny”).

Rob (Roy) Woad-bod and the Picts

2006-07-08T03:21:00.000+12:00

Mr Rob (Roy) Woad-bod
Wee, Dram and Bairnspiddle Barristers and Solicitors
Hwiskey Hic Brook Thrae HeatherARGYLLSHIRE
email: weedram @ haggis.och.sc

Dear Mr Woadbod,

I've been given your details as a leader in the field of Pictish Indigenous rights. My clients are an Australian family of traditional Bogan culture who wish to lay claim to the Crown Jewels of Denmark on the basis of Indigenous Rights. They wish to base this on Aboriginal family lore here in Australia, where communal ownership of property has been used successfully to argue for communal land rights. They are yet to decide whether to pursue rights as Picts or as Danish Royals through the marriage of one of their number into the Danish 'moiete', giving them, they argue, equal ownership rights with the Danish Royal Family to all Royal estates. Naturally these rights would then extend to other Danish royal brides; they attempted to bring Princess Alexandra into a joint legal action but she has so far demurred.I will be telephoning you, and this letter is to put you in the picture about the topic I wish to discuss with you.

Yours faithfully,
Tjakumarra 'LuruBarrister at Law
"The Block"
REDFERN Sydney NSW

Dear Tjakumarra 'Luru and Many, Many Associates,

Thank you for your phone call of a wee while ago, thanks kindly. You called at drinkie time at your end, and I was at drinkie time at mine (how astonishing, given the time difference!) so it was indeed a warm and lively interaction for the unacquainted. But that's how it is between Indigenous peoples, is it not, in the face of oppression? Indeed, I receive calls from an Indigenous colleague in Wyoming quite frequently - and his drinkie o'clock is the same too!!!Now, if I read you arright, you have clients, a clan named Boganson, trying to decide whether to identify as displaced Scotch Picts or de facto 'absorbed' Aboriginal Australians for purposes of getting their wee paws on the Crown Jewels and sundries of the Kingdom of Denmark. I'm inclined to advise that the Aboriginal Australian identification would be the way to go.

I consulted an expert at the School of Anthropology in London, a Pictish Indigenous colleague who works in the Pacific Section and is well happy to push for Indigenous rights. He was tired of dusting off skulls so organised their return holus bolus. Hard to identify which communities they should return to, but really, that wasn't the issue. The issue was our righteous desire to get RIGHT UP the anthropology aristocracy and oppressors. Wha hae!!! Anyway, our colleague advised that Pictish rights apply to land rights only, and not possessions. Something cultural I suspect, and due to our frugal and dissembling Scotch forebears failing to let on that they were accumulating possessions. So if frozen turf is that Bogansons' bag, they're welcome to pursue that line. Frankly I think the Indigenous Australian path is the path to a much more lucrative Dreamtime for the Bogansons! According to Aboriginal law that can easily and convincingly be resurrected from 20 millennia ago through paleological records etc, anyone who marries into that family, and his entire 'skin' or clan, has to share EVERYTHING. That means, in the case of these Bogansons, they can lay claim to the Danish royal family's assets and also those of that French hanger-on, Henrik something-or-other, if his family owns anything at all. (I hope we're organising a percentage fee!) Small downside PR-wise would be that the rapist has to be included as family.

It is EXCELLENT evidence of communal breeding and common-nesting identity that the rapist was invited to the Royal Wedding some five months after charges were laid. I'd recommend sifting through the monikers of the Bogansons and looking for the original Aboriginal versions of their names. Patricia's 'skin name' would be Partjartja. It appears there was the equivalent of horse-face back then, even though there were no horses extant! Perhaps the name refers to an echidna. John (Jr.) Boganson would have been Donfuckencallmebaldboyo, I would expect. The Bogansons sound well under way with the first step in the proceedings, which is to move onto the commonly owned frozen turf, or within the screech of the most powerful woman in the tribe. Visually you would expect it to be the mother-in-law, due to the size of the thrust breasts through grey gaberdine. But there are no hard-and-fast rules. John (Sr.) Boganson's Chad Morgan teeth are something of an indicator. Chad Morgan was part-Indigenous, and his song "I'm my own granpa" is a rousing inspiration to clan claim intricacies. To cut a long yarn short, all the Bogansons need to is all turn up on Kingdom of Denmark soil at the same time, and do a sit-down on the ground with a member from each side of the family wearing something along the lines of a possum-skin cloak and express the desire to have it all, and have it now. The spearhead Boganson, Mary, need do no more than she has already done - combine genes with Frederik and produce a mixed moitje member. All done, sewn up. I'd say the mink carry-all qualifies as possum-skin cloak. That was smart of Mary, getting her hands on the Danish Queen's cast-off fur coat!

In an interesting coincidence, while I was doing some traditional Indigenous Pict poaching in the woods a few weeks ago (on that estate some latter-day Vikings from Legoland stole off the original Saxon thieves who of course robbed it from MY ancestors) I came across the princess in conference - in good Indigenous sit-down fashion - in the woods. She and a big robust fellow and an extraordinary looking small jumpy woman - definitely not Pictish, more Indigenous Cornish. Corned beef complexion, Cornish, indeed!!! They were sitting around a very traditional Bogan Culture instrument know, I believe, as a 'bucket bong'. I have lost my indigenous sneak-up skills, and unfortunately overheard very little of the conversation. I did, however, get a close-up look at the princess from behind the snowman they had been having fun making - a dead ringer for Prince Frederik, with all sorts of symbology attached and an unfortunate exaggeration of some of his odder features. A baby gosling with a beer belly came to mind. The princess is indeed of exceptionally Pictish/Celt appearance. Incipient jowels - very much in evidence at the christening pictures - are an unmistakeable marker of the 'nooo stuff and nonsense laddy!' mentality our Pict/Celt women have used to conquer the spirits of nearly every weak-chinned male on the planet, the greatest emotional colonisation in history. Wha hae! Tjakumarra, you'll do fine. Denmark is full of bleeding-heart intellectual academics, because, as you know, those Scandinavian countries rely on higher education conferences, and troubleshooting genocides and things in farflung lands, to get anyone on the planet to visit. Where there is a culture of fuzzy academics you'll find fertile ground for our ancient laws to seed and prosper. Pictish and Indigenous Australian is a powerhouse combo. At least as powerful as the Vikings when they invaded the south of England.

And according to the tale ye tell, the surprise element all there, thanks to the princess's genius for distraction and subterfuge. Maths chair!! Hah hah! Creative writing lecturer! Hah hah! I await with great amusement the job designations of the remaining many! Let us know if we can proffer further advice. I'd suggest you take on the skin name Boganson yourselves in the meantime, by some circuitous route. I'll be investigating that avenue meself!A word of caution: Danish jante-law may pose an obstruction. I have taken note of your comments about an "We're better'n you f***face" tendency amongst the tribe. Jante-law will mean the slow Danes may take their time but they may wake up and apply jante-law to their thinking. I have taken the liberty of contacting a genetic expert, Dr Yehudi Geldstein of New York, in the hope that he can unravel the genetic basis for any Boganson traits that pose a risk to their plans. "So whaddayagunnadoaboudithuh?huh?f***face" genetic tendencies may need to be discreetly countered via substances and cordials of the convivial kind.

Wha Hae!!!

Yours sincerely,
Rob Roy Woad-Bod (soon to be Boganson!)

Post-Christening Wrap-up from Mary to Fred

2006-07-08T01:49:00.000+12:00

[Found handwritten on scented Kancellihus notepaper, with a gilded monogram and edging]

Fred.

LOOK. If I go to great lengths to organise a candid shot of you and me IN LOVE I expect you to RECIPROCATE. There I am, sticking my bottom out to the photographers just like the animal behaviourist we consulted said, doing my baboon-lady thing at the cameras, like I did in Greenland, then when they're all tuned up and ready, WHADDAYADO? You EMBARRASS ME. I mean, the photos show me pursing my lips at you and I've got my ARMS hard around you under yours since I obviously had to grab you first and you just look stunned and like you don't want to be there. What's with the stiff neck in the photos? There damn sure should have been a follow-up kissy kissy shot, so where’d that one go? Don't think I haven't had a good, hard look at the product. Niels gave me a head’s up on what they’d be releasing, as per our agreement. At least all those shots of me looking care-free, randy and highly sexualized a la Diana came through. With NO HELP from YOU, I might add! So much for all that effort tipping off the photogs. Did you really have to invite the girls along? Big huggy kissy Fred-Mary “candid” shots had MOST of their cachet neutralized by everyone wondering if the blonde was goddamn Amber. JESUS.

Please don't trot out your usual excuse: pale, pallid, hungover. I actually WAS pale, pallid and hungover myself the day before the christening when you wouldn't get out of bed to bring Ziggy for a walk. At least Jane & Amber came along to make me look better. I had to ask the cook’s assistant to come along and totally wrap herself up in scarves and hooded jackets to make people think she was Patty. GOD, those bitches are impossible to wake up in the morning. Not a one of them has my self-discipline. And then there’s Amber and Patty who are all salt-deprived and parched from the big tequila bender you organized for yourselves the night before. Proud of yourself? No, Patty, I’m NOT driving you to McDonald’s for HANGOVER FRIES like you made me do when we were younger! GOD. Would that ruin my image in two shakes, or what? “Yeah, hej, I’m Her Royal Goddamn Highness Crown Princess Mary. Will you kiss my ass, then super-size me like Kerry Packer did before he DIED?” GRRRR. Just SLEEP IN, FINE. Of course, did I mind being busted “casually” gazing at photos of you and me in a shop window? NUH-UH. Why the hell do you think I TOOK that route. That is some of Steen’s best air-brushing EVER, even if the bub’s yellowness couldn’t entirely be erased. But who cares, the shots of him in that scratchy, yellowed christening gown are gonna ROCK THE AUSTRALIAN MEDIA. Oh, yeah!

Bottom line. You're letting down the side and I don't like it. We have a corporate restructure happening, Frederik, and I'M the corporate psychopath the DRF advisers let in. Like it or LUMP IT. You know damn well that ALL you have to do is satiate my EGO by making it look as though I'm on a pedestal, and let me get on with the restructure. Do you notice?? Letting the staff along to the christening? BRILLIANT! They haven't noticed the PAY CUT because they're so damn STARRY EYED. I would have let them along for the reception except you pointed out the staff would be indistinguishable from any of my rellos. OK, I conceded on that.

You said you don't want to run Denmark you just want to remain my baby boy, well FINE, but do as you're told, if you don’t MIND. Do you think its fun looking at a five foot ten toddler all day? Do you blame me for looking past you and STRAIGHT at those spunky cameramen whenever I get the opportunity??? OK, OK, so my come-hither look resembles a smirk - but it WORKED ON YOU, remember??? I don’t care that you were drunk all through the Olympics, you certainly came back for MORE, BABY! GOD, it’s like your short-term memory is going haywire again. Have you been dipping into the diplomatic bag, schmookums? Well, GIVE IT A REST. I need you to FOCUS, DAMMIT! You’ve got my work to do.

I'm starting to get the SKEEVES with being Australian. Who the hell told Joachim to marry someone with CHINESE blood? Oh, yeah, you were there at their first encounter, all encouraging it probably. You ALWAYS had a thing for her. You’re most likely still pissed that she didn’t notice YOU as much as your scarecrow brother. WHATEVER. But, look, the Chinese are taking over the whole goddamn world and their economy is growing at 16 per cent a year. I am so burned and ropable that Alexandra has the right blood for trade relations with the Chinese. Why can't I be part Chinese? I want the suits to organize something: some Chinese ancestry for ME. Get Chinese Per on it right away. Bloody snippy crappy little Australia - who would BOTHER. I only used those eucalyptus leaves in the church because of the Tasmanian Devil fiasco and the Scots genes in me MADE me be frugal. Bloody hell, what an ancestry I’ve got. So, GET CRACKING, Freddo!

Speaking of Alexandra, who told her she could wear the best outfit of the day? The thigh-high slit will be MY department from now on, thank you very much. My hockey calves will have been massaged into extinction by next summer. They're working hard on it as I write. I’ve got a little Chinaman right here beating them into atrophied submission. He’s gonna teach me some phrases on the side so I can finally start impressing people with something other than my righteous new skin and hopefully, I’ll finally get some good, solo, heroic-looking, Diana-esque overseas gigs just like LITTLE MISS PERFECT. Now we’ll see just WHO is stealing WHO’S THUNDER!

And LOOK. Tell your mother to STUFF IT about the reception. I am SO TIRED of it, already. OK, so everyone thinks it was kinda CRAPPY. Maybe I wanted it like that. HUH? Maybe that was all part of the PLAN. It’s not MY DAMN FAULT that the staff refused to cooperate and not bring the little flower pots over from the church to the hall on their way back home. They’re so damn SELFISH, sometimes. THAT’S why the tables looked so empty with those bare white tablecloths they use for Rotary Club dinners. They totally would have ROCKED if only the staff had done what they’d been TOLD and not if they’d been coral damask with light green runners and pretty multi-colored bouquets because NO ONE IS ASKING YOUR MOTHER WHAT THE HELL SHE THINKS! And by the way, the low number of tables and the no chairs idea was MINE, thank you very much. That way, people couldn’t get comfortable and avoid gazing adoringly at the baby and kissing MY royal ass! PLEASE don’t think that I don’t think these things out VERY CAREFULLY.

About the flowers, FOR THE LAST TIME, in case you were MISTAKEN, Frederik, that was NOT of my own volition. I fight my Scots frugality genes SO HARD, and so does ALL my family. We're making great headway. Whadja think of that horrid outfit Susan wore? My lady’s maid found it at UFF and I had her sew a Malene Birger tag to the inside. She’s too freaking STARRY EYED to notice it used to belong to some 79 year old pensioner in Odense (probably one of the same idiots who went to see her there on her “book tour” back in November). I am NOT responsible for the red accessories – that was her own brand of crazy coming through. At least we got Patty and Amber in hats that covered half their ugly mugs. Except it stressed Patty’s monster chin. Damn. But, really, didn’t you think the flowers were exceptionally LOW KEY? OK, even though they DIDN’T show up on television, STILL. There was none of that vulgar, showy, drama BULLSHIT from your mother. Just a nice, pathetic, completely out-of-scale and -season little showing of buds to buy some points from the goddamn PRESS about how I am just a simple, non-extravagent being. Plus there was some not-too-subtle messaging going on with those blooms that your mother must have read given her double and triple takes after she was seated. HAHA! That idiot Bodil Cath, of course, bought my scam hook, line and sinker. Except I found myself handing a coat to Hamish's girlfriend to wear to the christening instead of just spending a fistful of kroner on a new one for her. You know, the same one that I let Jane wear at the rehearsal. You know how hard I've been trying. Like how I didn’t even bother getting out a coat for you for the christening. THAT’S why you were freezing your ass off. I had on thigh-length long johns, mmmm, toasty! The less I spend on others, the more that comes to ME for PRADA. And that goes DOUBLE for not spending on Jane and Patty or the ‘rents. Uh, maybe you girls would like to GO HOME NOW AND REINTRODUCE YOURSELVES TO YOUR CHILDREN!? GOD. But look, FRED, if I slip up occasionally, I want you to compensate with a wee taste of jewelry EVERY TIME, OK?! Doesn't matter what color, as I suit ANYTHING.

In case you are wondering why I'm WRITING to you instead of running up and down hallways hunting for wherever you are HIDING OUT on any given day, it's because I've decided MY place in history as the savior of Denmark warrants being on the record from the word GO. I mean, the Queen Mother RAN THE SHOW, but all that's on the record is her hubby blubbering and refusing to cut an ostriches tail feathers in South Africa or something, and the Queen takes over. TAKES OVER. SNIP!!! Tailfeathers gone. Oh, and she got the ostriches tailfeathers too. That’s an anecdote you’d be wise to remember, eh?

As you know, Frederik, I have YOUR peacock tail already firmly attached to my bedroom wall - secured with only one or two pins, I assure you. If you want a figurehead place in the restructured Denmark you will want to take note of my counseling, or it will be escalated to the next corporate stage. And don't count on any unfair dismissal laws. They'll be well gone. And STUFF democracy, by the way. Had a great conversation with George Bush about thatty, and learned a few helpful tricks. Having a highly intelligent narcissist as head of state always works best, so step aside, dollface. Look at North Korea. OK, so the yachting is non-existent, but do they know how to put on a show! AND they don't eat much. It's ALL kept for the state coffers, as it should be. AND there's that really important demarcation between BOGANS - I mean peasants - and the ruling class. I want ALL bogan peasant types kept RIGHT out of any camera frame anywhere near me from now on in, and I'm making that clear. Only aristos, please. Except I DON'T want La Baronesse herself, Helle Reedtz-Thott, in the same camera frame as me again either, thanks. Didn't mind a leg-up the social ladder and the gossip rags going to her wedding, but do you think I want to be photographed anywhere NEAR her anymore? She looks like a damn hologram next to my Amazon build, plus she’s a crap-load more naturally stylish than I am, DAMMIT. Can you see why I want AMBER as my foil? Especially how she’s for the time being still choosing to be with Mark, and baby, mark my words, they’ll be bruises and scabs galore coming out of THAT sick relationship!

Speaking of which, you KNOW I didn't give up a young rugby player - the PINNACLE of prestige for an Aussie chick - for a rapidly diminishing, inbred prince without an excellent strategic plan in place, don’t you? You may think two thousand changes of clothes and a couple of borrowed baubles are enough compensation for humiliations like having to cry along with you in church so you won't look more sensitive than me. Do you know what that is like for someone with my hormone mix having to put on a Bambi face? That’s right, kiddo, DAMN DIFFICULT. So, we’ll be alright as long as you remember just WHO OWES WHO.

And NO attempting to usurp my hands-on parenting persona, OK? I can read you like a book. Next time, I get to carry the mink baby carrier, OR I'm photographed instructing YOU on how to carry it, I mean him, OK? JESUS. And let me just get this out in the open RIGHT NOW, if this Islamic cartoon BALONEY continues, you can just leave my ass out of ANY sort of showing of DRF “solidarity”. I DO NOT condone the showy antics of dictatorial, self-centered, badly-dressed totalitarians! GOT IT, bitch?

Where are you anyway, one of the webcams has had a sock thrown over it or something. Hmmm. It was strange to see that it was a diaphanous sock, and in hot pink, no less. Odd, it looked like those that Misse wears. LISTEN, if it belongs to some bitch who’s hotter than me you are SO in for a lashing. And not a hot, kinky way like I used to let you before I got my ruby ring, ‘cause I’M holding the reins, now! Ride THAT horse, baby boy!

Your real mama,

ME

Pre-Christening: Mummy answers Freddles

2006-07-08T01:48:00.000+12:00

Den 20. januar 2006
Fredensborg

Cher darling Frederik,

I have received your recent, anxious letter. I do say, you indeed have quite a strong wife on your hands, much more stubborn than I originally guessed, but truly, darling, you must go deep, deep inside of yourself and find your inner royal Viking and start taking charge in your marriage and remind her of just who butters her rug-bread. We cannot allow her to actually prevail. It is one thing to lead her to pretend she has choices now that she’s in our family, but the dynasty must trump our little Scottish womb. I know you do your best, dear, but do try to remember your morfar King Frederik and how he was able to be the rock around which mormor Ingrid and your aunties and I rallied. He was a pillar of strength, finding comfort and respite in his many musical pursuits. Perhaps, darling, you should not have chosen to discontinue your piano lessons as a child. You did disappoint Papa and me with that decision. Cultural pursuits do bring such equilibrium to one’s life. We expected such a move from your brother, but from you, darling Frederik, we did expect so, so much more.

All that of course makes it more understandable why you may have felt that once I announced the engagement that you could actually pretend to love Mary until it actually really happened, but do know that it is your job to help and teach her, not the other way around. I am not dead yet, my darling boy. For all I know, one day the baby will come home when he’s grown and belch at the table or try to crush aluminium cans against his forehead, as you told us you witnessed once during one of your visits to Mary’s family in Australia. No doubt that grotesque behaviour eminated from the family felon; I do hope that ugly business has been resolved and swept under the rug. (Also, I’ve had assurances from the Royal Danish Secret Police and Investigatory Ministry that our jurisdiction does not extend to Tasmanian prosecutorial influence. Tant pis, as your father would say.) Remember, darling, we can only stretch Danish goodwill so far before the “gig is up” as Mary says and our glorious dynasty is, what other expression does she use, “kicked to the curb”. Whatever in the world that may mean although I suspect it predicts our demise. Well, she sorely misjudges the Danish appetite for our royal family. This country will never be republican, they enjoy the show and the bragging rights to our long historic line all too much! Keep Them Blinded by Glitter should have been my sub-motto.

Regarding the flowers, I will hold my breath and pray hard to our bountiful Lord that Kirsten will properly incorporate Mary’s wishes for flowers into a respectable and effective decoration for the church and reception hall. Blue flowers! Honestly, it is January and this is not my first rodeo. That is why I became a bit apprehensive when Mary forcefully interrupted my conversation with the florist. I am still in shock that you tell me she was quite unpleased with the kur gowns I so studiously designed for her. Do try and convey to her, Frederik, how much work I put into our presentation to the world. I understand that she seems to need to assert herself more and more, and in a brilliant stroke of insight, instead of fighting her, I decided that she really should just be allowed to choose her own flowers. The messages in them will be enough symbolism for people to see if, in fact, her little floral venture has been successful. Does she know the phrase, be careful what you wish for? Dearest Frederik, does she really not know that anemone = forsaken, larkspur = fickleness, iris = message, white rose = I am worthy, blue hyacinth = constancy, white hyacinth = I’ll pray for you, forget-me-nots = ditto, white tulips = fame & charity, and buttercup = ingratitude & desire for riches. Well! What a message that our dear girl feels forsaken to the extreme of constantly shouting fickle (and insecure) worthiness with a passive-aggressive promise to pray for us to not forget her while trumpeting her fame, ingratitude and desire for our riches. If only my original design for the christening were to proceed with imperial lilies for majesty, nasturtium sweetly representing patriotism and maternal love, heliotrope to remind Mary of faithfulness to one’s meal ticket, red camellias for excellence which I do wish she would start to strive for, flowering almond for the hope that I often feel is lost and a scattering of oleander since it means beware. Beware beloved Denmark, beware!

Thank you, darling, for at least being amenable regarding the menu. I’m proud of you. As food is not your wife’s forte, she really had no stocky leg to stand on, now did she? I shudder at your recollections of dining chez Donaldson on your visits to them in their natural habitat – no wonder you insisted upon cooking. Papa is so pleased and proud that you have ultimately excelled in one of his areas of interest; you do your French genes proud, darling. Don’t forget the Danish ones, now! At least on your extended tour Australia last year you were able to slip away with your sailing friends and eat in nice restaurants. Papa has heard through his culinary connections that there are actually quite clean and decent ones in that country with actual vegetables and that it’s not all bangers and mashed grub worms swimming in lard with a side of red dirt. I do always have to phone Charles to tease him whenever he pays a visit there – oh, the things those rough outback types make him swallow! It always makes me think of Mary’s little friend Annie and her romantic life. Anyway, it does make one wonder since Mary used to look so cute and healthy even if her clothing did resemble sausage casing? But the entertaining rituals that the Donaldsons employ are quite strange. Do people really fill garbage cans up with beer and ice? Isn’t that completely unsanitary? Why would a reputable caterer do such a thing, and how does the staff distribute to the guests? Honestly, sometimes I am so happy and grateful that the Good Lord blessed me with the honourable burden of being born a royal, a Dane, and a national symbol. There is nothing like living in the safe, white cocoon of beautiful privilege and complete absence of vulgarity, well, at least until your wedding came along. No wonder your Mary chose to purify, bleach, and emaciate herself once out of her former, vile living conditions, and it explains her initial kindness to us. She really did need rescuing, though I dare say her confidante Aimee would have been a much more deserving candidate for our sympathy and makeover money. You two do seem to get along so well.

I agree, of course, that Mary must make sure the baby is getting his proper nutrients, even if, heaven forfend, those Donaldson genes would prevail in the end. In fact, perhaps with proper nutrition, the Donaldson genes will not be so bad. Now that the family is out of Scotland and living in an era of health-consciousness we have less to worry about. Interesting, is it not, that those sisters clearly prioritize gym attendance and look what is has wrought to their bodies. Since the baby is a boy, this has more appropriate implications. I do hope to be blessed one day by a grand-daughter, but I shall have to hope that she is delivered to a future spouse of Joachim’s, since he seems to have a preference for slight, feminine creatures. Much more suitable. (I received such a strange email the other day from your American geneticist. He called later to assure me that it could have been worse, and that the baby would ordinarily have been a girl since you, darling, provided the X chromosome. In other words, if you spurt out a Y with the next child, we will be making medical history, to say the least.) We must, however, be sure to separate Joachim from Mary’s dear Angie during the christening. Benedikte, too, is quite worried and nervous about this girl’s proximity to Gustav, as is Anne-Marie to Nikolas. It’s bad enough that she got mixed up with that Hessen boy, she doesn’t need to be the knobby-kneed seed-catcher to our little family. We’ll have to make sure that we plant plenty of sturdy blond waiters and stable boys and guards near here. That should surely distract her and keep her busy. I’ve instructed Ove to seat her at the table nearest the far corner by the kitchen entry, behind the oleander, as a message to all to tread carefully. Is it possible to require a physical exam of her before she enters Christiansborg and starts eating off our plates and leaving her DNA on the silver? I’ll phone the Australian Ambassador again, he is most amenable in his efforts to ensure me that there are many and better specimens of Australian womanhood. He showed me photos and offered university and professional statistics to back up his argument. Yet, I’ve met quite a few of Mary’s gang in the last couple of years and all I have to say is that I’ll be the judge of that!

Thank you again, of course, dear, for remembering the importance of the character of the baby’s sponsors and not choosing Annette. I know Mary wanted her to take part in the religious upbringing of the baby, but as we are God-fearing, humble Lutherans and she is a husband-grabbing, fame-whore, harsh-faced walking petrie dish and Church of England reject, it really was quite clear that Allison’s influence would not be exactly desirable. I am pleased that you want to honor both aunties Benedikte and Anne-Marie by choosing one of their children each. Gustav and Pavlos are such good boys, even if they have trouble choosing suitable wives, too. Perhaps since you’ve asked Jane Donaldson to be godmother that you might gently suggest to Mary that they have a nice girl’s day at a salon and try for a softer, more feminine look. We don’t want to confuse the reporters into thinking that she is a godfather. She is such a nice girl, though, I do not understand why her father and step-mother are upset about including her as a sponsor and not them. Is Susan still upset that I will not again call the jeweler to lend her something proper and dignified for the christening like I did for the wedding? Have they not been appeased enough with the wonderful, I suppose, work opportunities at the university? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m still having nightmares after sitting across from John and his open kilt at the wedding? Why did they call me a fair dinkum arsehole, and what, pray tell, does that even mean? I will assume for the time being that it means “we are ever so grateful to Your Majesty for the generosity you have shown our sorry, undeserving family and we humbly implore you to accept our thanks and goodwill.” Shudder.

I am pleased, of course, to hear that Mary is taking very good care of her skin now. I am still hearing the sarcastic jokes echo about the addition of her makeover to the wedding costs from the Prime Minister’s office. I believe the Royal Treasury had to sell quite a few bonds just so that our little Tasmanian devil could attempt to roll back the clock on her looks. I had Ove just send them a photograph of her sisters as justification of the costs. Not surprisingly, I never heard another complaint. As shocking as it was to discover that a young woman of her age from such a sunny country had never heard of sunscreen, it is at least reassuring that now that she is armed with the proper knowledge about skin care, she can be careful not to take on the shade of her little barnacle friend Agnes.

See you tomorrow, darling. Do promise me, Frederik, that the names you and your wife have chosen for the baby will do the family proud. Our family, darling. Ours. I’ve been honouring your request for secrecy, please don’t disappoint me and Papa. I’m not anxious to go back on the valium drip until I’m sure that everything will proceed well tomorrow. Also, dear, I’ve just instructed the staff to have some jewels sent over to Mary for her to choose something, of course, only if she sees anything she likes. She should have something new to wear because of the baby. Tell her to please not to share with her friends and family. They are not the contents of a piñata, splayed out for all and sundry to just grab up and do with what they please. Please stress this especially to Susan and Abby. I was very uncomfortable with the way Mary and hers were looking at me during the wedding as if they hadn’t eaten in three days and my jewels were ham sandwiches. That’s hardly the way I responded to her father’s jewels that same day!

Darling, I’m afraid that my next craft project after your tissue holder is finished is a nice cross stitch cummerbund with dancing penguins for Papa. He’s been hinting for one for quite a while now. But you do have a point about little Sverre. I’ve written to Sonja to tell her just how happy I am for her that he is such a handsome and healthy boy, trying not to let my disappointment in my own grandson come through. I’m grateful that she is understanding and does not allow me to feel too much pity about the baby.

Your loving and devoted,

Mor

The Geneticist

2006-07-08T01:47:00.000+12:00

To: "Client #666's Mother-in-law" henrikshoney @ myspace.dk
From: "Yehudi Geldstein" ilovesesamebagels @ hotmail.com
Date: 19 January 2006

Dear Your Queenship,

Sorry, I'm an American and I'm not up on quaint salutations. Pardon me for writing from my hotmail rather than my professional email, I'm a little unnerved. I know this is going to sound like a cop-out, but I have checked around my colleagues and NO-ONE has ever struck opportunistic genes like the Donaldsons seem to have. Essentially all my gene manipulation work came undone when the Donaldson opportunistic genes scooted around the inserted genetic material at around ten times the normal speed, and overwhelmed it.

Unfortunately, you may well find this same genetic material doing a similar thing to your complete selves, and it is likely, given that Frederik has inherited the slower component of the family set, it has taken some time to notice. I do apologise, because it must have been very difficult for your son to pull hairs from the heads of those various Sverre-linked cousins and second-cousins - with root attached as necessary. It all appears to have been a waste of time. I suspect the Donaldsons have had many, many generations tuning this extraordinary genetic tendency. From my limited perusal of the media the genetic material is very strong indeed.

It also leads to interesting thoughts for research - genes+environment would explain Ms Moody's extraordinary transformation to what appears close to possessing the identical genes. Regrettably, it's now entirely an open book as to how many of the selected genes may have made it through. It is looking so far as though very few have worked. Perhaps next time there won't be coincidental perfect offspring causing comparison. (I was invited to do similar work by another royal house but could tell from a screen dump of a thumbnail that no intervention could possibly achieve anything.)

If it weren't for the screeching from your daughter-in-law I would have got a word in edgewise and suggested to her that they could sell that gene for millions. Your plan to use a youthful nanny as an incubator certainly has merit (and could be fun!). That will also avoid the embarrassment of Frederik turning up to extended family events with tweezers. Pardon me for stepping outside my professional role here, but I am certain from my interactions with the princess that she will happily sacrifice conjugal relations with Frederik if she can remain sample size. Frederik, I'm sure that is no slur on your height or your masculinity. In any case, the genetic testing showed that the princess has enough male genes for both of you, so 'no worries on that score' - I picked up that phrase on my initial assignment for you in Bondi. Sorry I got the house wrong and did the initial profiling I sent you on Kate Fischer!!!!

Yours sincerely,

Yehudi

DON'T REPLY TO MY PROFESSIONAL EMAIL

Pre-Christening: Freddums writes Mummy

2006-07-07T15:54:00.000+12:00

Den 18. januar 2006
Kancellihuset

Chère darling Mor,

I do hope that this letter finds you well today. I must say that I enjoyed myself so much the other night with you and Papa as he was giving the kitchens in Fredensborg a good send-off. He must have covered every surface in flour! It does make one feel a tad guilty that Cook will have to have his crew clean up our little mess. But we haven’t all laughed like that since President Bush was in town – such fun! Your laughing was so deep that your smoker’s cough was productive! Well, I’m sure Mary had a good time, in fact I’m sure she wanted me to write and tell you such. Her eye rolling was only because of the flour in the air – you know how sensitive she is ever since the laser resurfacing for hyperpigmentation during her makeover wedding present. And I do want to apologize for it looking like she huffed out of the place back home in anger, but she mentioned something in passing along the lines of trying to deplete her breasts again as a better way to spend an evening, but I’m sure that she just meant that it’s very important to try and bring the baby up to a better weight.

As you well know, she’s been a little hurt by my and Joachim’s baby photos. I suppose that chubby cheeks don’t run in the Donaldson family, so of course, her hurt is understandable. We need to do our best to continue to comfort her and not stir her up. I’m trying very hard to do my best to quietly ensure her that achieving a healthy weight during the next pregnancy is actually beneficial for the baby and not just something that “totally sucks” for her, poor darling. Now, I’m just as scared as you are about these rather, well, hillbilly genes tainting our placid Slesvig-Holsten-Sønderborg-Glucksburg pool, but evidently I made the mistake of pointing to Felipe’s daughter and Haakon’s son as examples to strive for. After the yelling stopped, she tried to call her geneticist in New York to fire him and revoke his license, which I’m not sure you can do just based on puniness, and go back to the doctor in London. I don’t remember what she shouted into the phone to him since my own ears were still ringing and I was feeling around for the bottle of scotch, but I can assure you that he won’t be vacationing in Denmark anytime soon. (Yes, I reminded her that we are THE link to the tourism industry here even though the party line is that we don’t care and are a viable institution that doesn’t come when called. Even Mary doesn’t swallow that one entirely, though, Mor.) Well, as it turned out we just sent out some press releases that the company actually used photos of the baby on their website to divert attention from the real issue. I’m starting to see that Mary’s right, Mor, it really is easy to fool people!

In fact, I was looking forward to a more robust wife, especially after going on a honeymoon with something akin to a bag of bones, which I dare say, is not terribly romantic. (Shall I just quickly mention that it is indeed a blessing that she has that charming Anglo-Saxon diversion to nudity which kept her from pulling a Bettina and providing us all with an entire rib count and pelvic exam in a paparazzi photo. Plus, she’s far too careful with her image, as you well know.) But then, when we weren’t out on the boat, Mary did prefer to lay out on the lanai with magazines and the cell phone (don’t worry, Vogue Australia is no longer on speed dial) and have the staff bring her drinks and new hats every time the headband would start to get a tad sweaty. (You can’t say she isn’t grateful for her makeover! She sure is being careful about protecting her skin now, thankfully. Yes, I did relay to her how important that is to us that she respect our generosity after all we’ve done for her. Please don’t make me do that too often, darling Mor, it is a rather trying conversation to have with her.) I do hope she’ll start becoming acquainted again one day with food, just like she was when I first met her. It’s strange, even though I was physically attracted to her when I didn’t see her as more than a toss-away girl, now that you’ve forced us together, she becomes skeletal. It’s like my proximity makes her not want to eat. Well, clavicle chic was never my bag, but we do have to try for another child eventually, so I guess I’ll just have to grit my teeth and proceed. Maybe I can use a blindfold and pretend that I’m trying to spice things up.

All this obsession with looks brings me to a rather sensitive subject. Er, um…well, I know we’re almost used to it now, but remember your reaction the first time meeting the Donaldsons? I still remember mine, and I know we reacted the same way. We won’t ever forget a shock like that, now will we? (Normally, I fear for Papa’s reaction, but as the Donaldson’s only speak English, his “Mon dieu, quel horreur!” was blissfully ignored. So maybe you’re not correct that education is everything!) Even you admitted you may not have been so quick to engage us at the Caix press conference in August 2003 – boy, did you have me in a panic then just as you were in a panic once you’d realized what you’d done to the future of the dynasty!

Now, even given that fluoride and the dental arts apparently were not available in Scotland before he left, it still is quite a surprise I do realize. I’ve reminded them that your excuse is that you smoke like a Texas barbeque. What, pray tell, is theirs? And then there are Mary’s poor sisters. (By the way, the one you think looks like an emu is actually her sister-in-law – that should make you feel better!) Although your quip about them showing genes that could rival a Viking’s actually touched a nerve, and contrary to what one would expect, they agree! Well, the other day all this came up while I was cooking dinner for John, Susan, Jane, Amber and Mary (I must say it is very complimentary how they like my cooking, and quite odd that none of them claim to even be able to boil water when I’m around. Oh, and don’t worry, that scary boyfriend of Amber’s isn’t staying here at the house, too. When I asked if he still had business to attend to in London, I was met with a bursting laughter and a reassuring “uh, yeah, that’s it”. He does seem to be a dedicated chap, I must say). I suppose they’d all been drinking quite a bit and, as is their habit, getting quite loud when the conversation took an unfortunate, but not surprising turn as they declared their “Scot Highland” genes as far superior to ours. Stop laughing, Mor, I can just hear you now! Really, it was a frightful turn in the evening. Now when I get blotto with Bendt, Jeppe, Holger and Nanoq’s crew, we are at the least still able to keep our saliva intact and not wont to picking fights, as you and Papa have explained well to me and Joachim as vulgar and undignified behavior.

They all started yelling about some chap named Rob Roy being better than "some asshole named Gorm” and then arm-wrestling each other. They have an interesting Highland yodel, I suppose is the best way to describe it – it must be a necessary call to arms when family pride feels offended. It was all I could do to remind them that I had a kitchen to attend to (now you know why I insist on cooking). Amber and Jane were on the table with their drinks arguing about whether it was better to be forced into having sexual relations with a plumber or a multi-millionaire hotel and pub owner. They were actually pointing their fingers into each other’s shoulders. It was all so strange and grotesque, and as Mary says, it is all so “bogan”. But I’ll tell you, when the cameras aren’t around, my wife can roll with the best of them. I’ll admit to being a bit turned on by it, after all, this is the gal I fell in love with, ol’ “Iron Thighs”, as I call her. It certainly is a pickle you put me in Mor, I love my Mary (doesn’t she remind you of Nanny MacGillicuddy, too!?), but sometimes I am evidently not enough for her, which of course makes me terribly sad. Plus, she really is a very stocky girl, isn’t she? Doctor Freudenborg has been telling me during our weekly sessions that I never noticed Mary’s stockiness and demanding nature due to her uncultured insecurity because pheromones get in the way of perception early in an affair. Also, given my unnatural devotion to Nanny since you were busy with other things when I was young, I was a bit blind-sided, I suppose one would say, by what I perceived as inner strength. Honestly, I had assumed all along that Mary was the backbone I was missing, as she does have many masculine traits I lack, and while she most certainly does have brass ones (Per will be the first to agree with that!), she’s not exactly the nurturing type. Nor the forgiving type. Nor the understanding type. Nor the comforting type. Nor the inspiring type. She’s the hard place to my rock. I always wanted to be someone’s rock, but I figured it would be to a sweet girl who had deep integrity, a sense of self and tradition, and a cultured background that could gently buttress me in my duty toward Denmark. Now I have to inspire myself, and I will be the first to admit that it is a rather difficult thing when one has such a nice sailboat, wonderful friends with expansive estate homes, and a black Amex to instead try to focus on teaching at the academy or knuckling down and doing “work” and getting “exposure”. I can start to see now, with the doctor’s help, that Mary may not be the ideal personality to lead me out of this hedonistic pit I’ll admit we both enjoy so terribly much. Sometimes I feel I should have done as Felipe and Haakon did and brought home a nice local girl who would understand the culture and know what expectations there are of her and who would have birthed us a nice, fat heir. After all, after the shock of Papa being French, you actually set the country up to want a Danish girl as queen, didn’t you? Oh, je t’aime, Papa!

I do, however, welcome these family diversions for her, especially since she’s been feeling so down lately. She wasn’t as enthused by the floral mustard and eggplant colored jacket dress you picked out for her as she was by the blue costume from the Royal Theatre for the first kur. Maybe she’s more attuned to Victorian Orientalism than we originally thought. She did after all ask for your help in turning that gorgeous sari into a cute, Western saloon lady dress. I’m sure she knows she’s lucky her mother-in-law designs theatre costumes! But I suppose it was sad for her not to be able to wear the tiara again, she does love it so (what a sight to see her jump up and down, howling something about "outdoing the bogans" and "the eastern suburbs are my bitches", whenever we bring out Mormor’s rubies), although I’ve told her that technically we cannot call her Her Majesty until your passing. Well, the quiet pout that ensued is better than the usual yelling session, wouldn’t you agree?

As for Mary’s kur, please have my assurances that it was Lis our press agent who made such an egregious error. I’m sure my dear wife would never have asked the press to show up only to close the door on them. Actually, if I’m sure of anything in this life, it is that my wife would not lock out the press. You were correct, Mor, that the press AND the Donaldsons AND Amber cannot be at an official court function, absolutely. I could not imagine the photos that could emerge from such a combustible guest list. Yes, Mary has spoken to Amber about carousing on public mattresses with skinned knees and the bridesmaid’s outfit you designed and paid for. Don’t worry. She threatened to have it dyed another colour, but I do think she was kidding. Yes, I’m sure of it. Just as she promised that her new boyfriend would not crash the christening. Hm, on second thought, maybe I’ll just double check with her that she wasn’t kidding on that last one.

I do want to thank you again, and on Mary’s behalf, too, for all of your wonderful organisational expertise for the christening. As you know, Mary and I are quite incapable of pulling off such a show, as I like to relate more to the common man with ill-fitting suits and "down-with-it" street cred, and Mary is a common man, er, well, woman, of course. Oh who’s kidding, MAN. But at any rate, what would we do without you? And I do thank you, too, for allowing so many godparents for the baby. Mary really does have an inferiority complex, as you can well imagine and unfortunately have seen manifest, and it seems that she and Pavlos’s wife will be competing in the Rag Tag Commoners Pretending They’re Really Super Cool Through Their Child’s Godparents Roster contest. Pavlos and I can only roll our eyes, but in the end, he grants his beloved wife’s wishes and I do the same to my wife, if only to keep the peace at home. In that regard, thank you ever so much, dearest Mor, for acquiescing to Mary’s wishes regarding the flowers. I guess we’ll just have to see how it all comes off on Saturday. That poor, scared florist! You’d think he’d be used to her now since he supplied her with fresh orchids every week when she was living in her flat in Langelinie. Mary’s time now is thankfully busy choosing a new outfit for the celebrations. Oh, the number of samples that designers have sent over! I’m trying to steer her clear of strange, fluffy, feathery, hat thingies, but we’ll see if she listens to me. I’m not in good standing right now, as always.

Oh, if you are needing a new craft project once you finish your latest decoupage tissue holder for me, the baby could use some new booties. Perhaps you could make them a little longer than would fit him normally? You see, as demonstrated in Mary’s Christmas card that Ziggy and I got to be in, we had to resort to digitally manipulating the baby’s proportions in order to elongate Mary’s hands, which I’m sure you’ll agree was the best thing to happen to her little hams. But now Mary’s very worried that he’s not going to have most people’s attention at the christening since Sverre is coming (I know, isn’t he something! Now, HE could take on a Donaldson with his two month old pinky and win) and will make the baby look even smaller and punier. And Mary would prefer cashmere with mink trim this time.

Thank you ever so much, dearest Mor.

Your loving and devoted son,
Frederik

Mary to Amber: the christening

2006-07-07T15:33:00.000+12:00

Til: “Amber Petty” skinnedknees @ skanksnet.com.au
Fra: “Kronprinsessen” rugbyboysrule @ kissmyass.dk
30 December 2005
SV: Hey

So, did I tell you about the latest bullshit? I was reading in a magazine that that Norwegian FREAK of a couple wants to bring their chubby-cheeked, well-fed kids to MY kid’s baptism?! Can you FREAKING believe that? GOD. Then everyone of the damn photographers will be taking pictures of THEIR kids since they’re all cute and everything and that peroxide mother of theirs will try ONCE AGAIN to STEAL MY THUNDER. You should have seen the pathetic, grotesque looker me photos of her with the Rottweiler in London. She’s a jealous DRUG-ADDICT, hello! (Oh, sorry, Amber – well, she does at least prove that you can be functioning.) And have you ever tried talking to HIM!? GOD. He’s almost worse to understand than Fred, you should have seen me when they were here for lunch last month (I wore that totally unflattering Prada huge-red-rose military hemmed top – righteous!) trying to lean in all polite like, um, ok, repeat that AGAIN, please. It better NOT be true, or Fred is SO in for it, as if he couldn’t be in deeper. JESUS. Did you see that plaid skirt I wore to church for Christmas with the Chimney-In-Laws? I am SO MAD at him. I asked him to prep my clothes for the service while I took a bath since we had to let the staff off for the holiday (labour laws, time with family, blah blah, FINE OK LEAVE US HANGING THEN GOD) and what does he do but lay out the plaid skirt with black top and black boots. Which is fine, except that now I have this damn old lady JOEY POUCH derriere on my front side as if I’ve had kids. Oh. Well, crap, it’s like HELLO you can’t wear plaid on a curve and have it be flattering. GOD. Plus, the black on top and and the bottom just contributed to me looking CUT IN HALF and not having a lean line. Then Anja called and totally reminded me that just like with so much that she’s having me wear, that unflattering is the key and you have to keep people guessing by making sure your style is all over the map. I LOVE her. At least SOMEBODY in my life is doing me a freaking favour.

OK, so like the baptism. Um, look Amb, you know I love you to pieces and you’re like the only one in my life I love, for reals, right? OK, so they’ve been giving me lots of crap and here’s the deal. You can totally come. But you have to come without Mark (and without wearing the bridesmaid’s jacket even in a NEW, CUTE, HOT way – besides fushcia and beef jerky-brown aren’t really a great colour combo). Ok? Look, I’m really glad that you’re like, in love, or whatever, but seriously, he is just not who one wants to have at one’s ROYAL baptism. Ok? My kids are going to be ROYAL, Amber, you’ve got to just deal with that. I just can’t be hanging out with you and Jade’s kids at least until the divorce goes through. They are getting divorced, aren’t they? And even then, not in Denmark because of that whole stupid Bandidos thing, I don’t know, it all had to be explained to me by Per (don’t you think he looks Chinese? Haha.) Look, I’m sure he’s great, and at least he’s rolling in dough, I am VERY happy for you on that front (why don’t you take his credit card and get something really CLASSY and expensive to wear!? Oh, and NEW and not secondhand? OK?) but, look, I’ve got people to show up, OK? NOBODY gets to STEAL MY THUNDER this time! True, I don’t have to worry about Monster Chin, she’s dating some meathead who owns a gym, HELLO, do they not have used car dealers in Sweden? Then, at least you can speed in style. But that snippy, constipated Berleburg cousin and her doofus husband will be there and I’ve got to keep pretending to like them – I think I can get a new horse out of that family if I play my cards right. (Can you imagine they like in Paris – voluntarily!? WHATEVER.) I’m still trying to keep the Greeks away. God they bother me. Talk about people being the CENTER OF THEIR OWN UNIVERSE – GET A LIFE! Oh, speaking of Marie Chantal, if you don’t mind, if you’re going to come, could you also, like, DYE YOUR ROOTS? GOD, I’m sorry, but HELLO!

But before the baptism (they keep calling it a christening or name-giving ceremony, whatever, like, hello I’ve been calling him his name ever since we brought him home even if it’s NOT THE NAME YOU’LL LET ME HAVE – as if anything is wrong with Kevyn Shayne Dylan Keith. GOD.) I at least get to ROCK THE HOUSE for New Year’s at my OWN – yeah, baby – PARTY. They were all like their usual cold, weird selves about me and New Year’s and everything, then all of a sudden, it’s like a miracle, like they were hearing me all along, Chinese Per told me that they decided that it’d be great for me to have my OWN NEW YEAR’S PARTY! Oh my GOD. Just like back in Australia, except with full lead crystal cups, baby, no more plastic – and GOOD booze! Except, here’s the deal, I have to invite all these groups I’m supposed to be working with. Can you IMAGINE? Only a couple of them are fashion. Like, the MENTAL ILLNESS people have to come. WHATEVER. They’ll come and make me look good and hardworking and like I care and stuff. Isn’t that all awesome? I am going to be the ONLY host to this party. I was all, Fred, did you hear, and he was all like, a few years ago blah blah Papa blah blah feed the beast blah blah. I swear I only get HALF of what he’s saying. But anyway, just check out what I’m going to wear – it’ll be NEW. Let me know if you like it. Except for this goddamn joey pouch, I’ve really lost weight. It must drop off when you quit breast-feeding. (Two months is just TOO long!) Try and see if you can get the photos printed in New Idea or Women’s Day. You ARE still working for them, right!? Don’t tell me you’ve blown it. I need the publicity back home for the next trip. You BETTER come through.

Grr, there’s one TINY matter I can only talk to YOU about so you gotta keep it under your fascinator, OK? My SISTERS. OK well you know how we had this deal going that I’d keep those bitches in style if they all pretend we’re always been a BIG, HAPPY clan (WHATEVER!) from here on in, well, it’s getting a little pricey. Managed to skeev POP and even Susan off onto the university, but the girls don't wanna WORK. Patty’s all like Scott says NOBODY would be a plumber if they didn’t HAVE to be and we don’t HAVE to be – well, DUH, who the hell WOULD be a plumber? WHATEVER. And Jane’s been here like for nearly THREE months – um, would you like to pay RENT anytime, or would you rather remember you have CHILDREN in TASMANIA on the OTHER FREAKING SIDE OF THE PLANET? And there’s this HUGE bigger problem, Amb, and I need your advice. Like, here I am looking FABULOUS so long as there’s a reflector over me, but there are all these photos all over the place of my ugly sisters and GOD do they look OLD. I mean it Amb, older than YOU do. It reflects on me. I don’t care how old YOU look – actually that’s GOOD (sorry, it’s true), but if my sisters look like elephant hide, it makes MY GENES look bad and I wanna blame the baby’s faults on those freaking INBREDS. What do I do? My makeover cost, especially the laser resurfacing for hyperpigmentation, was basically counted as part of the wedding cost – that’s why the wedding was so freaking expensive, you don’t think those hideous heart-flower SCULPTURE-THINGIES were anything but bogan cheap do you? (That’s another story, I revisited the damn flower pictures and they were CHEAP, I’m really pissed off about that. Don’t they think I’m worth expensive flowers like DIANA GOT? When I was living in the flat on Langelinie I made DAMN SURE Fred paid for fresh orchids EVERY WEEK!) Anyway I told Fred I want my sisters done too and the fool said no. What a NERVE! I’m just afraid I’ll have to end up going down on him longer than I originally hoped. GOD, my jaw hurts just thinking about it.
Anyway, that’s why I put him in the dogbasket in the Chrissy card pix hahaha, he didn’t notice since he’s dumber than ZIGGY. Well Ziggy isn’t dumb, Ziggy’s bright for a dog. GOD, I cannot believe I let Fred talk me into a BORDER COLLIE. Could anything be more HYPER? Stop HERDING ME! NOBODY tells me where to go and what to do. WHATEVER! Plus, they needed to be in the back of the pic. EXCUSE ME, but who just popped out the kid, future of the empire blah blah? ME, THAT’S WHO! So, pardon ME! HA! The only thing really weird was that we had to have the cards printed in three languages. I have NO idea what kind of weird freak of a language we also had to put there, but WHATEVER, as long as no one around here is going to make me learn ANOTHER one. As if it wasn’t a pain in the ASS already to learn theirs. And as if I use it! JESUS.

Hey get this, check out the clever card photo one more time, Ambs – they are so brill with the photoshop I got my hands elongated AND the baby SHORTENED and made even SMALLER! (Well, I guess he IS that puny looking actually. I HATE breastfeeding – I swear it’s so UNNATURAL. But it’s too bad they couldn’t get rid of his pudgy Donaldson nose.) All that re-working of the baby makes my hands look even longer. I can’t help having fat little hams, and GOD it’s tiring hiding them from woeful Fred. He’s looking smaller and paler all the time. I’m always like ok, step away from the bottle, Fred, GOD. I’m under orders from my advisers (my new reps in Sydney, not Chinese Per) to always look more wan and pale than Fred, in case it looks as though HE’s doing any being-a-daddy type work. So I can get the kudos. My GOD can I get any whiter?! But my reps say it’ll help my Saint Diana/Mother Teresa image. I do look like a freaking CORPSE, but that’s cause Fred looks like some hot bitch dragged him through the cess pits of Calcutta backwards and then through a hedge and dumped him in his own puddle, where he can look at MY reflection, THANK YOU, cause that’s where he’d be if he did get busy with some hot bitch! GOD.

And here’s a little advice, Amb - you know what I’ve realized after all this time? That you only have to pretend to enjoy fellatio (that’s the classy word for it) until you get The Ring. Then you can start bossing them around! Isn’t that killer? Try it with Mark, I’ll be it’ll work. Jade probably stopped doing it and got all wrapped up in her kids. WHATEVER. You CANNOT take your eye off the ball or they will notice and not let you boss them around! I mean it, Ambs. Anyway, I gotta do the fellatio thing for another year or so. Patty’ll take ages to fix up. Sorry, Ambs, you’re way down the queue. Hell, I’m a bit worried that once it gets down to you, MY REAL RING will be what’s at stake! Not up for that, now that I’m a princess. Marriage changed EVERYTHING. GOD Fred's gullible! Now to break him down for the sissies’ plastic surgery. Everything is always on MY shoulders!

Happy Freaking New Year to Me!

M

PS. Don’t forget to get an appointment at the colourist. You CANNOT embarrass me, ok? I MEAN it! Or else you will find the royal bouncer does NOT have your name on his magic list. Ta!

Amber's response

2006-07-07T15:30:00.000+12:00

To: “Princess Mary” rugbyboysrule @ kissmyass.dk
From: “Amber Petty” skinnedknees @ skanksnet.com.au
8 December 2005
Re: Hey

Hey babe, what’s going on? Nothing here.

Oh my god, we did it!! Did I tell you?! Me and Mark. We just totally came out and officially confirmed that we’re a couple! Isn’t it kind of like totally incredible to like deal with the press? It just feels right, you know, and like my destiny, too. Oh my god, Mary, it feels so good to be free with our love, you know? I mean, it is just so hard to like hide your love and everything, you know all about that. You had to do it with Fredrik and it sucked, I so totally remember. Oh my god, remember that time I almost blurted out to him how much you thought you and him were like Romeo and Juliette and like, totally destined to be together? It was so romantic and I almost wanted to cry for you I was so happy but you were all like SHUT UP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? TOO EARLY while moving your finger across your neck a bajillion times and looking like you were going to kill me! It was kind of funny, but no, really, I still feel so bad about that, but you were right all along, cuz look you have this baby together and you are like famous and rich and have the best clothes of anyone!!! Is anything better than that?

But anyway, back to me and Mark. He’s just like the most amazing man!!!! Can you believe I got Mark Freaking Alexander-Erber!!!! It has made all that bullshit walking the red carpet alone posing with no one but faggots and idiots like Renee Geyer all worth it (can you believe that bitch Linda Gavin actually thinks she looks younger than me!?!?!?) Even that tranny bitch Courtney Act is all damn, I wish I were a real girl. Oh my god, I so love that his last name is hyphenated. THAT is class, baby! Pubboy is really taking off and he has SO many new hotels coming (you and Fredrik have got to stay in one of them next time you will love it!!) and oh, you would love this cuz it’s so like what you’ve always said, he’s starting to do all this branding cuz he said something about most people are dumb enough to buy anything and he wants his life moto to be his trademark and so the t-shirts say *uck it Baby Roll the Dice. Isn’t that amazing!?!?!? He says it keeps him rolling in it!! Haha!! GOOD!! I will totally make sure you and Fredrik get some t-shirts, ok? Too bad they don’t make baby sizes!! Haha!! He’s such an exciting man and baby, my credibility is UP!!! It’s about time. He really nows how to live and he totally rocks my world and everyone totally like bows down to him. We go for rides on his motorcycle all the time and everyone looks at us and totally check us out!! He reminds me so much of you, Mary, cuz your both like these geniuses when it comes to making things happen and cuz he also has this amazing power of being successful because he totally believes in himself. He says he trains his subconscious. I told him that you too were probably separated at birth or something cuz you are like the same way!! Isn’t that freaky? He also says degrees are ok, but living life is where the real lessons come from! I love that!! Just like your degree never came in handy, either!!!

And the best part (for me!!!) is that he is just like Fredrik – he has money coming out of his ass!!! Thank God. Mary, I know we totally talked about how we where going to totally marry only men who totally respected us and had money and we did it!!! We deserve this and should not feel bad about it one little bit!!!! We are just so blessed. You and Fredrik have got to use him whenever you do your concert thing down here. Remember, we are so totally about helping you with that Pakisten thing (what is that for, anyway???) that your doing. Mark’s Witness Protection Entertainment could totally produce a rocking show for you!! Are you sure it still has to be for charity? It’s just that it would be more fun if it didn’t have to be. That way you don’t have to worry about band reputations and hoping that there is a little money left over for sick kids or whatever. Like last year when you raised a couple thou for the Red Cross. Although at least it got me on their board. Nothing else was making that happen! People can be rude, can’t they? I know your getting that a lot more of that these days. Well, so am I. People are jealous!!!!! Like that bitch Moira from BigLittleMusic always looked down her nose at me, but no more!!! We could totally get like Mikelango and Black Sea Gentlemen. There going to totally run from their agent and over to us in a heartbeat. They now were the smart representation is!!!! And Linda Gavin is going to have start kissing my ass!!! Haha. Livia Rose and Biftek are so totally going to be green with envy at my new superstardom with WPE. I love you, Mark!!!!

Of course Jane is spitting mad. But that’s her own fault. Mark told me what a freak she has become. It’s been ever since she became a mother. You’ve totally got to be careful, Mary!!!! Mark swears she used to be cool, and I know that you guys know each other, (I guess it’s pretty cool that you introduced me to her because now her husband is like my dream) but now that she has kids she has turned into a monster. Mark says she wouldn’t let him do anything, ever!!! He could never just go out and have a night out with the guys. And she would yell at him for coming home late when he was working in the evenings and on weekend nights and call him selfish – as if!! Who’s making sure she can shop all she wants? Oh my god, can you imagine? What is it with some women? They can be such total over-protective bitches!! She would make him like play with the baby and feed him – when he had to leave and go to work at night. It just makes me so sad for him. I just want to love him and give him a big, big hug then when he stops being sad, I’d want to make him really really happy and unzip his pants and pretend to wonder if he wants it. Oh my god, I’ve never been with anybody who loves it like he does!! But I’ve got to try to get him to stop holding my head down. It sucks! (Hahahaha). But it’s not as bad as that time that one guy made me go get my teeth contoured because he thought they were scraping him too much. Oh my god, whatever!!

I swear, Jane better get her crap together and soon. Do you still know her enough to tell her to stop it and get a grip? Maybe your secretary can do that? Please? Think about it cuz I could really use your help. It’s not enough that I call her up at her real estate office at Ray White and hang up when she answers. I can no longer be safe out there with all those jealous bitches in every freaking bar in Sydney who are not afraid to go all kung fu on me. I don’t even know who hit me, it was that hard and they just came up from behind. I’ll bet it was either that bitch Jackie O (her radio station is around the corner, isn’t it?) or Gretel Killeen. Bitches! That idiot barmaid Breeannah was all oh, can I help you and I’m all um, yeah, stop that bitch from hitting me, oh too late!!!!! Sometimes it is like everyone is out to get me. You get that feeling too sometimes, right? The whole world is jealous, Mary. They cannot take people who are beautiful and smart and famous and better than them. It is just a FACT. We have a lot to deal with, don’t we?

The good news!!! We’re coming to see you!!! I want to be in town for the baptism. That’s cool, right? We could stay in that upstairs suite, unless your family is using it, then we could take one of the downstairs rooms. Or maybe your family could take the downstairs rooms? Whatever. I can not wait to see you!! And for you to meet Mark!! And for Fredrik to meet him. It’s going to be so nice to all go out as two couples, you and me with our awesome (rich!!) men! Hey, maybe you and Fredrik can take us to that amazing club in Copenhagen one night? It’s not that far a drive and it would be so fun!!

So are you going to get that Norwegian guy know that you now that he didn’t name his kid the wrong name? What the hell kind of name did he give his kid, anyway? Oh my god, as if anyone on the planet can pronounce that. And what’s with Magnus? Have to tell the world you’ve got a big one? Whatever, if you’re that desparate!! Haha.

Please please please DO NOT ask Phillip to be godfather. Oh my god, that would be so totally embarrassing for me! I cannot see him again. He was so uncool to me after Thailand, which is weird because when we were there, he was all like you are so awesome and beautiful and I want you to do me all night. Oh my god, it was so romantic. It was such a total dream. I really thought that maybe we were going to go the whole way together, you now, like you and Fredrik. I LOVE the sound of Princess Amber don’t you!!!??. Then he had to go and get all freaky and cold and pretend to not know me after!! Whatever he had a tiny wing-wang anyway. That bitch of a girlfriend of his was so like stay the hell away from him you crazy bitch – even though she ended up moving out. Can you say the kettle calling the black pot? Hello! Plus, I think Mark would totally like take him out back, anyway and really show him how a gentleman treats a proper lady and that would just not be cool with a baby around, I now, don’t worry. Mark totally knows how to act around kids – he has two now remember? The little one is the same age as yours!!! Isn’t that awesome? Maybe they can play together when you come back. Wouldn’t that be just perfect, Mary, here we are with our babies (well, my step-babies!!) playing and our men drinking beer and riding motorcycles and we’re talking and feeding our babies. But definitely make sure Gustav is there!! I want to make him jealous with my new man and show him what a loser he is for not going for it with me. Is Fredrik’s cousin Niklas (however you spell that!) still available? Since he didn’t go for it with you, you wouldn’t mind if I tease him with Mark would you? I’m telling you, I am soooooo proud of my man!! (Can you tell!!!!)

Oh, I got the baby photos you sent yesterday. Don’t worry, it’s just a weird angle and probably really crappy liteing. NOBODY’s nose can survive that kind of strait on close-up. And I’m sure he’ll grow out of it and become really really cute!! :- )

Bye!! Write soon!!!

Amber

Mary's first email to Amber

2006-07-07T14:59:00.001+12:00

Til: "Amber Petty" skinnedknees @ skanksnet.com.au
Fra: "Kronprinsessen" rugbyboysrule @ kissmyass.dk
4 December 2005
SV: Hey

HEY. Well, the bub’s asleep so I can finally grab some time. Oh my God, you remember our cook, right? You thought he was kind of hot, I swear I don’t get that, but whatever, he’s all trying to make me eat these large, “healthy” (yeah, whatever) meals to “keep up my strength” or something and I’m all like HELLO, got weight to lose just give me a damn melon slice and a cracker, who pays you? Men are so bloody CLUELESS sometimes.

Anyway. Did you hear? That Norwegian bitch just had a baby. This one isn’t going to be king, though, cause they’ve got a different system up there and so that bald kid of their’s gets to be queen. That is why I am SO GLAD we had a BOY so that there is NO QUESTION. He already looks SO much like Daddy and not these inbreds, thank GOD. Anyway, they didn’t announce the name though and I SWEAR it better not be Kristian. Oh if it is, I swear that crazy drug-addicted, dyed-blonde FREAK is in for it. I’ve convinced Fred to not ask Haakon to be godfather until they announce their kid’s name because if it is Kristian, then Haakon has SO lost his last chance to be my husband’s best friend which is fine by me because that show-off witch of a wife of his always wants to STEAL MY THUNDER, like when she went to the Rottweiler’s wedding and showed off all la-di-da I’m a Scandinavian princess looker me looker me. I’m so glad that Fred went away like I told him (I swear he was almost harder to break than my HORSE). Was that not a killer excuse to not go, I mean really, who would ever doubt that going to Greenland could be anything but “meaningful” and “important”. Haha. Because NO WAY was I going to that wedding! I am so much better than having to attend a lousy boring second wedding that isn’t even really a wedding, hello. You are such a bitch to think that I was too insecure to be with them. Are you freaking KIDDING me? Don’t throw that shit my way ever again.

At least my kid isn’t yellow anymore. Thank God. I mean, how bad is that? I just about punched Dad I was getting so tired of the jokes. And that looker me BITCH in Spain had to have had her kid airbrushed to death I mean NO BABY comes out looking that good. It is impossible! It’s like she wanted once again to STEAL MY THUNDER and NO WAY am I putting up with that. I told Fred that no way is Felipe going to be godfather, but of course I did it all nice and all like, well he is Catholic honey, so maybe it’s better not to ask him. He totally bought it. I give her props for staying hidden for a week before being photographed though – she needs that time to be put together haha. I looked SO much better, don’t you think? I was so going for the casual barrette thing to make it look like I don’t give a rat’s ass and they BOUGHT IT. Ha. I told Søren to go gentle on the flat iron so it wouldn’t look too “done” and later we laughed like hyenas about pulling the wool over people’s eyes, you should have seen us. That idiot Bodil Cath will believe ANYTHING. Anja brought me that super awesome dark coat that looks Chanel and was all wear it with black stockings since you’ll be standing long enough and you can do the T and it’ll make your legs look SO GOOD and everyone will be all oh my god she’s so HOT right after giving birth which stirs up all those erotic virgin mama-whore feelings in men or something like that. You know what? She was RIGHT!

Speaking of Søren, did I tell you he called his friend Ole to come over? He mumbled something about needing “serious intervention” after he saw the photos of us coming home with the spud. Ole is HUGE in Hollywood – he’s even done KIDMAN - and he’s this amazing beauty guru and came over to talk to me about even MORE things I could do to look pretty. I swear to God, and you BETTER not tell this to ANYONE, but I am starting to channel Patty like Fred’s been channeling drunk crazy people with bad toothaches lately. It totally FREAKS ME OUT. I mean I love her and everything, but let’s get real, she’s a little harsh looking to say the least and it scares the CRAP out of me, the very idea of looking like my family. I mean, our genes are great, but well, Daddy didn’t have the best ideas about personal hygeine, so it’s not like it’s not PREVENTABLE, but STILL. So we talked about how ok, the laser resurfacing was like a really good start like the restylane and now there is this crazy expensive cream that has like – don’t gag – human placenta in it and seaweed or something like that and it’s what all these crazy Italian aristocrats use and it’s super RARE and I’m all like, will it work, and they’re like, honey, please. So I’m all like, ok, sign me up but it BETTER WORK. It’s supposed to like plump up wrinkles and lines, not like I really have any but better to start before they come, right? And there’s this other thing, I think it’s like $200 an ounce or something, SO expensive, but it’s to protect me from any more sun spots and freckles and tanned like a COW’S HIDE because I can SO not go down that ugly road anymore, you know? Oh, sorry, but you know what I mean. You don’t look that bad at all. Really. J

Hey, what the HELL is the deal with Becs and this baby she just had? And what is this BULLSHIT about some Hewitt spawn getting busy with my kid?! WHATEVER! As if THAT baby’s going to learn any manners. GOD. I might MAYBE allow Bec to be seen with me next visit, but I SWEAR you’ve got to tell her no more stupid stuff like Hewitt. She needs to get her shit together and start acting like a LADY if she thinks she can snag an invite to our next Aussie party. I don’t do bogan anymore, I’ve been REAL clear on that. Tell her! I mean it, Am. Otherwise, the deal is OFF.

Speaking of coming back, do you have any news yet? What is the DEAL? We’d put out some small PR here, but nobody’s biting. What’s going on down there? You’re not slacking off, are you? Haha, sorry, but really, please try to HURRY and let us know what’s going on because if Markson’s going to be involved, then we’ve got to get him in quick and make sure we can pay his fees (can you freaking BELIEVE what he wants?) and we’ve got to have time for Jayson to design our dresses (are you still in for that, too?). Make sure he’s still just doing it for the publicity. I am worried that we will NOT be able to pay those stupid prices AND still have everything up to standards. Remember how that one guest bit into his shrimp appetizer and like the SHELL was still on it? I was so ready to KILL or FIRE that stupid chef. Oh, and tell that bitch Kate and whoever the hell she’s sleeping with that they are so NOT invited to any party we’re at. That idiot stepped on my dress and nearly ripped it last time. I was FUMING, but you know me, I totally looked like I was keeping my cool. Plus, I hate her anyway because her legs are longer than mine. Christ, maybe we should just go back to Plan A and do the concert thing and keep it more casual. Then we could dress up so that bitch Kylie knows who the real ROCK STAR is.

Did you hear about my cousin’s FREAK of a husband? What an idiot. He gets busted for diddling some under age slut and now will probably have to go to JAIL, can you imagine my embarrassment? And now my cousin Jackie is all oh my God Mary it’s awful and she wants to get together either there or here for “moral support” or something, yeah right, AS IF! You know me, I so want to give her such a big HUG, but you know, it’s just not the right idea. I cannot risk my publicity to be seen with a RAPIST LOVER. Hello. Some people just have no clue. Like when Fred – I told you this, right – was all ok to Andrew Denton about doing some cheap radio promo spot and I was all HELLO Clueless! Can you spell class? Evidently NOT. I am the one who needs to field the marketing questions. GOD.

Did I tell you? We have to have Christmas with the queen and Frenchy again this year. Grrrr. This is going to get old FAST. I swear if they smoke around me and my kid anymore I’m going to LOSE IT. They are freaking CHIMNEYS. At least my family’s around so that we can slip out early and have a decent, relaxed time. Except that Christmas and the cold DO NOT go together! I’m telling you it SUCKS! I so wish you and I could go out to Bondi together in army shorts (why do people say they’re manly, are they insane?) and sunnies (gotta protect the investment, Fred is ALWAYS bitching about the cost) and find a good terrace to sit on and just relax and pretend not to notice when people recognize us. HA. I’ll let you know if Fred actually gets me the jewelry I picked out for the baby’s birth. He’d BETTER! Ha. Did you know that? It’s what rich people do – give the woman jewelry when she pops out a kid. Doesn’t that ROCK? I figure I’ve got 10 good years left. Problem is I so do NOT have the mommy instinct. GOD. Grow up already, kid!

Did I tell you the good news? I’ll be at these New Years Eve celebrations that they throw here and I get to dress up full stop, I am so gonna ROCK THE HOUSE in my skinny body and jewels. Yup, I get to wear the tiara, baby! People are going to freaking EAT ME UP. Billed Bladet should PAY me. I LOVE that the slow people get a regular dose of me every few months. It keeps me flying high and in their faces. They cannot get enough of me. Boom, wedding! Boom, tour that country (Denmark)! Boom, tour our country! Boom, get pregnant! Boom, have the baby! Boom, rock the house on New Years and then is the christening for more show!

Oh, by the way, I have to tell you that I am SO sorry that you won’t be a godmother. I really am sorry. I fought hard for you and I swear I thought maybe at one point they were about to cave, but JESUS, I have rarely been fought so hard by them. Something about continuing tradition and maintaining integrity, blah blah, I don’t even know, so I’m really sorry. Maybe next time? But I CANNOT make promises. They made me swear to that. God they can be tightasses sometimes. I was all like ok, fine, WHATEVER. I’m pushing for Gustav (do you still think he’s cute – he’s still totally available you should GO FOR IT) and the Swedish girl. Remember her? You call her Monster Chin. Ha! But she really is super sweet and we need at least one title showing up. I cannot STAND most of them. They are all FREAKS who have this insatiable need to SHOW OFF and STEAL PEOPLE’S THUNDER, like WHATEVER!

Hey thanks for sending me that Emma Tom book about me. God, she sure does think she wrote a good one, but boy did she get it WRONG! Ha. What the hell about that part with that bloke for hire going through my TRASH – what the? That SO pisses me off. Why would ANYBODY do such a thing? I mean, my God, is nothing sacred? Can a person just not throw away her trash anymore with out the freaking CIA coming in? Jesus. So what I threw away a letter from my grandmother. Hello, she’s DEAD. And Miss Emma just has NO CLUE about how Fred and I hooked up. None. HA! And THANK GOD about her not knowing anything about Niklas or however you spell it. Oh my GOD did I dodge a bullet with that. It’s bad enough his bitch of a sister and that horse-tooth sister-in-law who thinks she GOD’S GIFT but is so totally WRONG were all talking about us in secret AS IF I COULDN’T FIGURE IT OUT. Bitches. Remember them? As if they can talk, one of them is FAT and the other is SHORT. HA! Oh, sorry, Amb, short isn’t really bad, not really. It’s just that being taller is better, you know that.

Crap. I’ve got to run, the kid’s crying. I swear this breast feeding thing has got to STOP SOON. I can NOT get National Geographic tits out of this. He won’t suck ME dry. Somebody’s got to stay hot in this family. God, have you seen Fred’s grays? They’re only visible all the way to FREAKING HOBART. And he has NO intention of dying them. I’m so sick of arguing about it so I was all like WHATEVER DO WHAT YOU WANT. But I did it all sweet so I could get more points. I have SO many points and the boy is ALWAYS in need of more. Haha!! That’s the way you got to handle ‘em, girl.

Talk to Markson then write back SOON!!

M