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I went to London & nobody called me a cunt

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So last week I went to Windsor with my Mother in Law for a Maundy Thursday date with The Queen.  True story.  She chose me, as the least embarrassing of her children and daughters-in-law (who’d have thought it?) to accompany her to receive maundy money.

I was quite excited, as I do like the Royal Family.  Our little island may be a bit of a global laughing stock politically, at the moment but if we didn’t have the Royals and weird shit like Stonehenge and traditions like rolling cheese down a hill or coal carrying races, then, let’s face it, no fucker come visit from abroad and spend their money.  So if you’re one of those people who bang on about wanting St George’s Day to be a public holiday and having the right to fly an England flag in your yard without being seen as a football hoolie or a racist, you can’t also bang on about the Royal Family being a waste of public money.  To be British means you have a Royal Family. End of. They’re part of the deal man.


Anyway, I digress… Somehow I managed to pass whatever security checks the palace do on Maundy Money recipient’s companions and I had my invitation.


More importantly, I had the Ruby Shoo heels and matching clutch.  The beauty of which would hopefully detract from the £13 Primark frock and the fact that I had opted not to wear a hat.


Didn’t need a coat in the end


I’m not a religious person, but St George’s Chapel was a beautiful building. So glorious inside.  Made all the more special by the old fashioned pomp, procession and fanfare that we do really well in this country whenever there’s anything royal occurring.

You weren’t meant to use your mobile but I managed to sneak a couple of pics before Her Maj and Eugenie arrived.  I didn’t dare, once she’d arrived, in case I was tackled to the ground by the Military Knights of Windsor or a Yeoman of the Guard then dragged off to the Tower of London.




During all this, Her Maj walked around the chapel aisles in what seemed like a random fashion. Kind of like the way I wander aimlessly around Lidl or Morrisons (much to Bman’s irritation). She handed out a red and a white leather pouch containing the maundy money to each recipient.  MiL was chosen to receive it this year for Christian services to the church and community.  So I am unlikely ever to repeat the experience unless a different relative over 70 with outstanding Christian proclivities gets chosen and asks me to accompany them!  #notlikely


The Queen was a vision in canary yellow and a lot smaller than I had realised.  For a 93-year-old, she looked fabulous and did a sterling job of plodding around the chapel.  If it had been a case of all the olds having to go up to her to get their money, we could well still be there now!  With the minimum age to be a recipient as 70 years old and many of the recipients looking way older than that, I felt positively youthful in that chapel. 

There was a rousing rendition of ‘God Save The Queen’ before Her Maj left to kick off her good shoes and gloves and put her housecoat & slippers back on and fire up a Bombay Bad Boy pot noodle at Windsor Castle.  We had a drinks and canapes reception at Windsor Castle too, but not with Her Maj unfortunately as I had initially been led to believe.


To be fair, she’d have been swamped by olds if she had been in attendance.  The resident Knights made up for it by entertaining us no end.  Not purposely, like court jesters or anything. But one, in particular, let’s call him Sir Chatsalot, I could have listened to all night.  He was like something off ‘The Fast Show’ and we loved him!


Managed to meet up with other royalty whilst on this royal religious mission and saw my old mucker from Bish, who was a superstar and top bag-wrangler and I can’t wait to see her again properly in August.

Before we knew it, the tiny sandwiches on silver platters were depleted and our royal date was over.  We headed back home via London Town, where I resisted the desire to get any random southern geezer to call me a “FACKIN’ CANT” because honestly – who doesn’t love that?  I’m a northerner and no mistake but I do love the way those southern shandy drinkers say my favourite C word.  Makes me go all unnecessary.


Meanwhile, my MiL is delighted with the (only slightly doctored) pictures I whatsapped to her of our visit.



So if any tourists were rubbernecking (and there were many). We are sure to be on several holiday snaps.  I did a royal wave at a fair few of them.  They had no clue who we were. I could have been a random distant countess of somewhereorother for all they knew.

I’ll honestly never get to do anything like that again.  By 8pm I was back down to earth with a bump. Back in Sadford with no silver platter bearing, white-gloved flunkies to cater to my whims.  No Knights to entertain me other than my Game of Thrones, Ser Davos Seaworth of the sigil of the onion, lookylikey husband.

BTW snaps to me for not laddering my tights or getting my dress tucked into them at the reception or anything.  Pretty sure I probably deserve an MBE or something for that!

Ciao Ciao and God Save the Queen MoFos! Xx