I'm sure that you will join me and all of Wales, man and beast, in conveying our best wishes to HRH Prince William and Miss Kate Middleton on their impending honeymoon in the Rhodri Morgan Memorial Caravan, Mwnt, before they settle down among the Turnipmen of Anglesey.
This is a particularly happy event for me personally. As attentive readers will know, one of my obligations as Cotsengi and Hereditary Ostler to the Court of Senghenydd is to break in prospective royal brides. My predecessor, Sir Dai Llewellyn , had a pop at the grooms too, but that was Sir Dai all over. Big heart, among other organs, and no stranger to the optics.
This time round I can honestly say that I'm looking forward to discharging my duties, and not just because Princess Katherine's pile at Bucklebury is only a 20-minute drive from my place. I could fit her in one lunchtime and still have time for a swift couple of jugs of Champion's Freckled Johnson down the Tethered Goat before heading back to my desk.
This time round I can honestly say that I'm looking forward to discharging my duties, and not just because Princess Katherine's pile at Bucklebury is only a 20-minute drive from my place. I could fit her in one lunchtime and still have time for a swift couple of jugs of Champion's Freckled Johnson down the Tethered Goat before heading back to my desk.
The more pressing matter, however, is what title HM The Queen is going to bestow on Prince William once he becomes a real man. Suggestions from my colleagues include Duke of Newport-Gwent, Lord Barry (although I think that's been reserved for Mr John), the Torch of Wood, and The Real Lord Kinnock. The Welsh Assembly might then have to legalise polyandry again so that the prince could add Baroness Kinnock to his harem. Lucky boy.
Myself, I propose a more radical solution. HM The Queen should strip Prince Charles of the title of Prince of Wales and give it to William. The explanation would be simple:
"Sorry, Charles, but William's earned it. He has a normal-shaped head, he chose his own wife first time round - and without her being married to anyone else at the time, either - and he doesn't talk to the foliage. Enjoy Cornwall, it's lovely this time of year. As they say in Benllech, ciao for now."
Can't say fairer than that.
Any respectful suggestions for alternative titles are welcome in the comments box. They must be royal, and Welsh.
Hwyl!
Cymru Rouge Royal Protocol Department
Year One, Anno Gwylimae
I would suggest his title comes from one of Wales' famous seaside resorts.
ReplyDeleteHRH The Prince of Ryhl. Has a certain ring to it eh!
You're not wrong, Your Holiness. An alternative spelling might be "Prince of R'lyeh", also Welsh.
ReplyDeleteThey could adopt as their royal motto the words of Cerys Out Of Catatonia in International Velveet:
"Gwledd o fedd gynhyrfodd Gymraes swil
Darganfyddais gwir baradwys Rhyl"
(A feast of mead enlivened a shy Welshwoman/I discovered the true paradise that is Rhyl)
In lieu of the mislocated honeymoon location (what were you thinking of?!), I suggest "Barwn Borth". After all, the lad's only a humble chopper pilot with a St Andrews upper second in Geography.
ReplyDeleteHow about the Count of Ponty-Cristo?
ReplyDeleteSt Andrews, agreed, has not a patch on Aberystwyth, although Scotland has marginally more geography to study.
ReplyDeleteBarwn Borth is an inspired choice, as he could land his helicopter at or indeed on Dovey Junction railway station.
My legal advisor, the K Man, is banned from Borth because of an incident involving yelling at Hell's Angels and not running away fast enough. Another enticement that delightful resort holds for the newly-weds.
Mind you as he's such a big cheese now he should probably be Duke of Caerphilly.
ReplyDeleteI spent a couple of bemused childhood years living above a water-filled cellar in Borth. The cottage was so draughty the carpets used to levitate when the local miasma was briefly dispersed by a breeze. Memorably, I once tumbled down an entire flight of stone stairs to be bitten by my Dad's sheep dog when I provocatively bounced at the bottom. I wish many such happy memories for the honeymooning couple.
ReplyDeleteI hereby volunteer to give Miss Middleton a "Shropshire tussle" just prior to the wedding, so that the assembled commentariat can describe her as having "mad marcher hair".
ReplyDeleteIt's a service to the nation, really.
I'm literally touched by the quality of comment here. Gyppo's extending of his six-fingered, stolen-ringed hand across The Dyke is proof of the Welsh Government's tacit alliance with the Rrom, which we all welcome.
ReplyDeleteGaw, that last comment is a good synopsis of The Great Welsh novel. I'm preparing a post for The Dabbler (at last) on the need for the Trash Welsh Novel, if you're interested.
NGB, that would be magic.
ReplyDeleteIt will happen, goboi. Things are quiet at work and I feel inspired by La Principessa.
ReplyDeleteShe's already been broken in, you don't serious believe they waited do you? Blame it on the permissive society.
ReplyDeleteState secrets, GB, are facts well known to hoi polloi but news to the Establishment. So ixnay on the she utpay it about an itbay, eh?
ReplyDeleteDo you receive any stipend or honorarium for your royal work? The Poet Laureate, whose duties are trivial, gets a butt of sherry a year (apparently that's 108 gallons, equivalent to more than two pints of sherry a day).
ReplyDeleteMeanwhile, your role requires tact, discretion, psychological insight and potentially hazardous manual labour.
The Barber of Tirphil
ReplyDeleteDewi
There are some splendid suggestions batting about here, but far in the lead so far is Steven Heywood on Facebook, who suggested the Count of Ponty-Cristo.
ReplyDeleteYou're quite right, Sauti. I've been told that serving Wales and servicing Sloanes are reward enough, but I'm nothing if not venal. I'm bidding for my own bodyweight in Penclawdd cockles, to be measured against me on giant scales in a ceremony like that of the late Nizam of Hyderabad - a man I've always admired.
Ahem. I believe Stephen was hailing my suggestion above. I only point it out in case there's a prize going. Such as one of your domesticated and multi-talented performing marrows. That would be a different sort of prize marrow wouldn't it?
ReplyDeleteSorry Gazza, I missed your earliest post in the plethora of others! The simpering fool Heywood is stripped of his title, which is passed on to your good and Welsh self, as in only appropriate - rather like Gail Trimble having to doff her mortarboard to those Mancunian scallies on University Challenge.
ReplyDeleteI wish she'd go into politics so that I could add her to my list of lady politicos whom I seriously would.
Did I write that out loud? Oh my.
Stretching a pun somewhat but:
ReplyDeleteDuke of Hwyl?
Re the subject of Borth - I lived there for several years as a transplanted Englishman. The surreal late night drinking in Mr Pugh's establishment helped keep me sane (almost)...
The way she hits that buzzer does indeed promise much. Rightly was she almost christened Gale Tremble.
ReplyDeleteAs for the marrows, they're all spoken for in my forthcoming re-staging of The Quatermass Experiment in my vegetable patch. my profile photo depicts Victor Caroon's slow transformation into something ghastly.
ReplyDeleteIf your proposal is unbeaten, you will receive the Cymru Rouge Order of the Charrred Lung of Llwchwr (III Class) and immediate call-up to serve in the border suicide battalion.
I like it, Rod. Borth clearly attracts the best of England, rather like a Tangiers of Cardigan bay.
ReplyDeleteAnother question, if I may.
ReplyDeleteAccording to Julie Burchill (below), Kate Middleton is part Jewish. Could you find out if this is correct? If so, it would be welcome news, likely to herald an upswing in our national fortunes.
Britain was never greater than when Disraeli was a favourite at Court.
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/columnists/julie-burchill/julie-burchill-for-kates-sake-lets-hope-her-prince-is-nothing-like-his-dad-2136108.html
Earl of Lampeter? Proper university there that might confer real degrees on the chinless wonder and his gormless bride.
ReplyDeleteBit on the republican fringe, me.
By the way, is it true that Pontefract was once in Wales, but had to handed over to Yorkshire as the result of some bet or other?
Also, the the verb "poncer" in French means to sand as in sandpaper.
ReplyDelete"Shame be on he who badly sandpapers?"
Is it some kind of code?
This comments thread is proof of the triumph of newandemergingmedia over print - in which newspaper will you find such erudite discussion of current affairs, replete with recondite references to French vocabulary, Welsh heraldry and Jewish genealogy?
ReplyDeleteI've always been a fan of Julie Burchill, Sauti, finding her contrarian oscillations from Stalinism to Zionism and sophistry to Sapphistry refreshing rather than the trite trolling of a magpie mind.
I enjoyed the chutzpah of her long article in praise of the late Queen Mother in the Modern Review, in which she managed to misidentify the dear lady's husband. He was only the King, doncher know.
If Kate is indeed one of the Tribe, this means not only an influx of IQ into the torpid Windsor gene pool but a strengthened British claim to historic Palestine. I've long maintained that restoration of the British League of Nations Mandate is the only way of sorting out the fractious locals.
I find the sandpaper reference alarming, Jon, as it may hint to some erotic deviance in the Middleton make-up that I'd rather not endure as part of my official duties.
Still, it could be worse. Princess May of Teck strung up previous Cotsengi David Lloyd George by his manhood from a chandelier and packed his passage with porridge. That may have been some sort of political statement, come to think of it.
Pontefract (Welsh - Pont Ffraith) was indeed an exclave of the Cambrian Kingdom of Glywysing until King Crempog the Slack (Crempog Llac) lost it in a head-lopping tournament with Robert Fitzsimmons.
Crempog misunderstood the rules and removed his own head with one blow. His son retrieved it from the Fitzsimmons arboretum at the cost of Pontefract. Crempog reigned for another five years in what is fondly remembered as a Golden Age of Welsh autocracy.
Yeah, I do remember your obligations re royal brides, but I was sure it's mostly a symbolic designation. If not, good luck to you, and I am pretty sure that we shall witness later the procedure of one's detached prick being shoved up one's arse, performed with utmost care and attention by Madame Boyo.
ReplyDeleteI hope this historic event will be filmed, being of importance and an undeniable didactic import.
Mrs Boyo realizes that it's all for the cause and I don't enjoy it one little bit. I make a point of thinkin of Tzipi Livni throughout.
ReplyDeleteI suggest The Wizard of Welshpool. I know wizards aren't part of the aristocracy, but it's time to change that so the royals appeal more to the pre-adolescent demographic. That way, yet another generation of dim loyalists will grow up allowing the in-breds to escape their correct destination lined up blindfold against a wall.
ReplyDeleteWelshpool, because I know it exists. I went there once to check, because I was so convinced it was just a concept the Welsh had invented to make fun of Liverpool. But no, it's actually there.
I'm totally and utterly liking it, Pop. Wizardry has been an integral part of Welsh life since Merlin and Lloyd George, so you're well ahead in the cultural pandering stakes.
ReplyDeleteThe approach to Welshpool on the Shrewsbury train is the greatest welcome Wales can ever afford a visitor. First the huge scrap iron yard, then the numb awareness that you can't stop the train, then the people on the platform, waiting to join you.
Can't understand a word of what is being said on this thread. Am I in the wrong country?
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