A Canadian on the Royal Wedding

Words: Rob Cutforth
Illustrations: Rob White
Tuesday 26 April 2011
reading time: min, words

Rob Cutforth can’t wait for the royal event of the decade...


But to be completely honest if I was invited to the wedding I’d be there in a shot. If for no other reason than to catch a glimpse of a coked out and frothing 300lb Sarah Ferguson clinging to the gates, begging to be let in. An army of Queen’s Guard soldiers lying dazed in her wake, stomped half to death, their stupid bearskin hats ripped to shreds; “The tasers! They do nothing!”

Just imagine the potential for schadenfreude. Watching the backseat royals squirming and grinning through their teeth while the proper royals get all the attention would be delicious. How bad would it suck to be Harry and have to sit through that whole thing? I know what it is like to have successful brothers, I have two of them; one of them travels all over the world with the oil industry making more money in a few months than I do in a year and the other is annoyingly bright with an engineering degree, an MBA and prospects out the ying yang. When your brothers kick your ass at life, it’s a right pain, but at least my own family will be there to remind me of my own tiny successes. “You’re just as good as your brothers! Sure, they’re minted and important, but you wrote that thing in Grade 11 social studies that got an A, remember?” Oh yeah! In your face bro!

You can’t really blame Harry for getting doped up and dressing like a Nazi. You’d do the same thing if your family constantly reminded you that no matter what you do, you’ll never be as good as your older sibling. “But Daddy, I went to Afghanistan and killed many undesirables… I’m a tank commander and everything!” “Oh, that’s very nice, son, too bad you weren’t born first eh? Hahahaha.”

God, if I was Harry, I’d be hopped up on Vicodin and nail polish remover every day, covered in hookers, my own spew and unicorn tatts. But at least Harry is young and third in line to the throne; all he’s got to do is kill his brother and eventually he’ll be the big boss. Andrew and Edward missed their chance, which is why they hang out with paedos and make rubbish TV game shows to get attention. Whenever I feel like I’ve done something stupid, I just play Edward’s “What’d you think?” moment to the press after his Royal Knockout quiz show and I feel better about myself. The YouTube version mixing the moment his dreams are shattered with keyboard cat is particularly good. 

You just know that every time news of the Queen prolonging her reign comes out, Andrew and Edward share a quiet high five at their brother’s expense. Probably over the back of one of their cousins while in the midst of a royal three-way.

William has picked the perfect time to marry. It is only a matter of time before the royal ugly gene takes over completely. The hot Diana gene put up a valiant fight, William was almost good looking there for awhile, but hotness is recessive – the butt-ugly gene is dominant, especially where the royal family is concerned. Royal family men are like the Emperor from Star Wars; the older and more powerful they get, the more they look like the lovechildren of Sloth from The Goonies and Mr Ed. As the years pass, they grow paler and sicklier and their hair just sort of melts away. Like a fog. And the jowls… dear god the jowls.

I suppose it’s at this point I should explain that most of the stuff above is unfounded rubbish. I’m sure the royals do good work and earn all that money we give to them. I bet Prince Andrew pumps tons of money out of his paedo mates for the country (yes, I know I already did that joke) and Charles… well, you know… sorry, what does he do again? Oh well, at least I got through the entire column on the royal family without calling Prince Philip a racist. As much as I take pot shots at the royal family, it is quite difficult to be peed off at someone who gives you a day off work. And to be totally fair, they’ve chosen a wonderful time of year to do it.

They could’ve been real dicks and done it in February. Frankly, it’s hard for me to imagine anything better than a beer on a sunny, spring patio on a workday; hell, I might even watch a bit of the wedding on TV. Oh, that’s right, no I won’t.

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