Many years ago, on a warm Saturday afternoon, I happened to be strolling towards the Place de l'Hôtel de Ville in Paris with a female friend. Reaching the Rue de Rivoli, we discovered that this busy street was the scene of a cavalcade of horn-tooting drivers who were celebrating a wedding. They thought it well to occupy this public volume at the heart of Paris—not only the length and breadth of the street, but the auditive space, too—as if they had a right to usurp it all, momentarily, for their nuptial festivities. I was annoyed by the selfish arrogance of the noisy revelers, but I thought it preferable to refrain from expressing my anger, since they would soon be gone. My friend was less tolerant than me. She turned to me and exclaimed loudly in French, so that everybody around us heard her explicit complaint, which seemed to amuse quite a few eavesdroppers: "Ah, all that frenzied commotion for a kiss!" In fact, she didn't use the word "frenzied", but rather an adjective that might best be translated by "fucking". And she wasn't really evoking a kiss, since she used a vulgar French term that can be translated by "cunt".
I was surprised by my friend's unexpected outburst, and no doubt a little shocked by her sentiments, because I had been so preoccupied by the frenzied commotion that my mind had at no stage been tempted to wander to the image of the bride's vagina. But, when I thought about it… why not? If indeed the young lady's sexual organ could be thought of (even indirectly) as a significant element in the event being celebrated, then it was a fact (I agreed) that her friends were kicking up a huge fuss about it all. To clarify things, I should point out that my friend had always behaved with me, in the sexual domain, in a totally down-to-earth manner. It was something that we both thought of as quite ordinary. In the case of a guy with whom she was prepared to jump into bed, she was hardly the kind of lass who would expect him to be so awed that he would want to go blowing his horn down through the middle of Paris.
I think of that trivial anecdote, today, when I see what's happening in the case of the British prince and his bird. The media have shown us photos of the transparent outfit she was wearing when the prince's lusty gaze first encountered her anatomy. If I understand correctly, that primeval visual encounter gave him a royal erection that has since stretched all the way to Westminster Abbey. And why not? Clearly, the woman was half naked! Great idea for British Cinderellas looking for a Prince Charming!
What the fuck! If that's what the people want, then—as John Lennon put it—let it be. In any case, a royal sex story is about to be rammed down the throats of half the kingdom, not to mention countless millions of the Earth's non-British inhabitants, invited along as dumb observers. From time to time, natural catastrophes and mad dictators bring us back down to earth. They remind us that there's something literally indecent about all that frenzied commotion for a basically sexual affair.
But everybody knows that posh vulgarity has always been a trademark attribute of the so-called Royals.