The British Monarchy: Who Needs It?
I’m no fan of the British royals, who are high level welfare cases living off the largesse of a nation that could find much better use for the tens of millions of pounds spent annually to keep them in Range Rovers, Centre Court Wimbledon boxes, and palaces that by all rights should be public parks.
The Queen seems nice enough, Prince William seems like a decent bloke, and Kate does seem rather royal, in a pleasantly unassuming way.
But the rest of them?
Meghan, the woke semi-Disney princess who decamped to SoCal with $30 million in British taxpayer money after hectoring the British public on how awful they were?
Prince Andrew, that Jeffrey Epstein sycophant who claimed he only stayed with the pedophile at his Manhattan townhouse because it was “convenient,” and who somehow won’t pay a price for violating the rule of “15 will get you 20”?
(If you don’t know what I’m talking about, Google it.)
Prince Philip passed away at 99 last week, and somehow his racism was tolerated by the British nation because…um…frankly, I have no idea.
He actually told the President of Nigeria, dressed in tribal robes, “You look like you’re ready for bed.”
He actually told British students in Beijing, “If you stay here much longer you’ll all be slitty-eyed.”
He actually asked a group of Indigenous Australians, “Do you still throw spears at one another?”
He actually wondered aloud on the BBC, after a mass shooting, whether, if a cricketer went mad and killed people, cricket bats should be banned.
Har har har.
How do you get away with old-school racism and insensitivity like that in our cancel culture era?
Prince Philip’s sisters, princesses of some sort, were a tad too close to Herr Hitler for the British public to stomach so soon after World War II, so they didn’t get to attend the Royal Wedding.
In fact, the House of Hangover, er, Hanover, would have been perfectly content to allow Hitler all of Europe, as long as he didn’t menace England.
Didn’t quite work out that way, did it, chaps?
Which brings me to Prince Charles, who has spent seven long decades waiting for Mum to die.
Charles, who treated poor Lady Di like a broodmare and then went back to his horse-faced mistress.
Charles, who has probably cost British taxpayers more than $300 million to feed, house, entertain, move about, and keep secure.
Charles, who has the temerity to wear a row of military medals on his chest despite never having served in combat.
Charles, who, while he was in the service, deftly avoided serving in Northern Ireland during the Troubles or the Falklands War.
Charles, whom the British public, according to polls, would like to see passed over in favor of Prince William.
The Queen is nine days shy of her 95th birthday, which means that Charles can probably be heard repeatedly mumbling his big coronation line, “I solemnly promise so to do” until he gets it just right, but not within earshot of Mum.
Incredible that someone in today’s meritocratic world can ascend to such an important position even if he has zero qualifications, not to mention a despicable record as a husband.
The Royal Family costs the British taxpayers 70 million pounds, which is just shy of $100 million each year.
What do they get for the money?
If you sold Buckingham Palace, you could get upwards of $5 billion.
How many teachers, therapists, and nurses could you hire for that kind of scratch?
Look, it’s England’s business if they want to keep this racket going.
But if I were a Brit, staring down a top tax rate of 45 percent, I might do something.
But of course, that wouldn’t be very British of me, would it?
So I suppose I’ll have to keep calm and carry on, and thank God I’m an American, where we don’t have incompetent, corrupt, vain people thrust upon us by divine right.
We just vote for them.