Friday, 26 September 2014 15:50

Scots could have divorced Kate and Pippa Middleton, Carol and Bunga bartenders

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kate-middleton-hat Scots said no divorce from Kate and Pippa Middleton, Carol and Bunga Bunga bartenders

Not so long ago, royalty used to traverse the globe to attend the weddings of other royals.


This is how royalty got to know who else out there was just like them. 

Royals could meet other royals, personalities were observed, bank balances compared, cousins were compared and, if they were less than kissing-close, matches were made.  

If anyone was overly concerned about inheriting that petulant Hapsburg lip, well, arrangements could be made for a dollop or two of handsome commoner blood.

Royal weddings were extremely important.

Kings and queens, dukes and duchesses, princes, princesses, and earls and baronettes–they all came to castles that had been in family hands for ages and ages, eager to appraise, and full of hope..

And they all wore not just their Sunday best, but lots and lots of jewels. Why wear just one puny diamond necklace when you can wear, oh, seven?'s+British+Royalty+-+Page+2. And a tiara!  And eleven sapphire bracelets!  And ropes and ropes of pearls. Why not?  

And if someone had an extra diamond necklace just lying around, why, they could just glue it up on top of a tiara to make it extra blingy.


Glue it.

I kid you not.

For these real, old-timey royals, “less” was never “more.”  

And if they were going to wear just one diamond necklace, well, they made sure that it was the BIGGEST one in the room.   

And then there were those fabulous hats, and accessories only seen at weddings and coronations such as stomachers, and the royal like.

But not any more.

Ever since Kate Middleton came to call on the British royals, with Mommie Dearest Carole and Daddy Michael and Pippa and James and Uncle Gary and a variety of aunties, the new generation of British royals put on, well, stuff...., like plain white schoolgirl shirts,, prison-orange satin skirts,, mix colors like purple and...magenta....and they fly off to exotic climes and castles that can be rented by just anyone, and they go to the weddings of....bartenders.



Not just any old bartenders, mind you.

The new British royalty isn’t jetting around to the wedding of Paddy O’Donnell or Lester Macaninny or (these days, anyway) Sri Minasswami or some other ordinary, enterprising bloke who’s the proprietor of a pub named something like the Black Swan or the Naked Goose or the Burning Bramble or the like.


Steak and kidney pie and a very nice tandoori chicken.


I love going to English-Indian pubs in London.  I feel that George Harrison is still alive.


But that’s not where the new British royalty is going.


No.  All you can get in those places is a pint of ale or Guinness or a nip of a sippin’ whiskey or a chilly gin, or a spicy cherry brandy or a cola.


The new British royalty prefers to party in places named things like “Bunga Bunga,” “Boujis” and “Mahiki,” all of which rather have the ring of imperial exotica now extinct, except for heavily costumed televised recreations. Mere cocktails at Boujis and Mahiki are in the hundreds of pounds, and tiny flakes of cocaine are said to be visibly suspended in the air so that you just breathe it all in.


So notorious were the drug clubs that national concerns were raised about the young British royals’ penchant for partying there.


Of course, Prince Charles may well have been the first Prince of Wales not to have had a favorite bartender.  But even the notoriously rakish Prince Edward VII, prior to becoming king, still would not have likely highed it off to Italy to attend his favorite bartender’s wedding.  


How things have changed!  Nowadays, when the bartenders of those high-falutin’ imperial snow-palace places decide to get married, the new British royalty just scrambles!  And not to attend the boring nuptials of the other truly royal in places like Luxembourg and Sweden.


So the new British royals and the commoner folk who are sold to them as “so normal” all jump onto jets and take off for the castles that even commoners can rent, and there they stand and witness the barkeep marrying....persons who are not exactly royalty, but who usually have parents or special friends who are wealthy enough to keep schemes like the latest popular pub named after some aspect of imperial exotica.


But fundamentally, the grooms are bartenders. 


The difference between the new-age bartenders and people like Paddy O’Donnell or Lester Macaninny or Sri Minasswami is that the new-age bartenders went to Eton, where they found themselves among the new British royalty.


And new British royalty are very thirsty.


Not for knowledge, or love, or honor, or conquest.


No.  New British royalty loves to booze it up!  While dazzling blizzards of teensy cocaine flakes swirl about.


I mean, have you ever seen any of the new British royalty or the persons whom they’ve married ever holding a book, or a newspaper, or....reading anything?


Or even just...looking thoughtful?




And Princess Anne, who has a face that expresses a thousand thoughts, a lot of them rather dour thoughts, does NOT count.


But we’ve seen lots and lots of photos of the new British royalty drinking, carousing, standing naked as jaybirds, vomiting into gutters, falling into the street, pouring themselves into limos and town cars and London taxis, glassy-eyed, skirts hiked up to their yah-yahs, and now....


Now, we are being treated to the newspapers dragging us all to their bartenders’ weddings.




When Charles Gilke, old Etonian and pal to Prince William and Prince Harry and several highly distinguished bartenders, tied the knot last week, the new British royalty showed up in droves.


Gilke is an owner and co-creator of the London drinking palace, “Bunga Bunga,” which could mean a few things, but mostly, the name conjures up the noisy ghost of disgraced Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s alleged sex parties where nude, underaged women were said to encircle the leader in his swimming pool.




Anyway, Charles Gilke is said to be “close” to the Middletons, those loving parents who took their only son, James, out for cocktails to celebrate his birthday a while back, and then violently shooed away photographers as James, staggering about in an inebriated state, decided to show off his manly parts and pee in public.


Those classy Middletons!


One wonders what Gilke’s professional, accomplished, and hard-working family thinks of his success at being the proprietor of “Bunga Bunga.” 


But the Daily Mail never gave us even a peek at Bridegroom Charles Gilke’s family.  Nor did we get to see the family of Gilke’s bride, Anneke Von Trotha Taylor.  Nope!  The Daily Mail focused not on the bride and groom and their burgeoning “Bunga Bunga” business, but on the new British royals and the tagalong Middlletons.  


Just count the new British royals in the pictures: Prince Harry, Princess Beatrice, Princess Eugenie, And then the en masse Middletons and their walkers: Mommy Carole and Daddy Michael, Pippa and Nico Jackson, James and Donna Air.


If the duties of that pesky Crown visit to former imperial colony Malta and Kate Middleton’s “surprise” pregnancy and incessant vomiting disease had not intervened, Charles and Anneke’s wedding would have likely been attended by Prince William and Kate Middleton herself.;


Thus, groom Charles Gilke and his blondish bride Anneke could have stared out from the steps of their wedding castle venue into a crowd containing many crowned royal heads, and also the far more familiar heads of the Middletons, with whom Charles vacationed in Mustique while courting Pippa.  Thus on their cherished, much-anticipated wedding day did Charles and Anneke get to gaze out at Pippa, the woman wrapped up in a purple and magenta maxi dress who once si said to have slept with Charles.  Next to old flame Pippa is tall man in oversized sunglasses that make him look like a bobblehead– Nico Jackson, the new man with whom Pippa’s now sleeping.  And then, sprawled all around, are the rest of the Middletons who might have been Gilke’s Mommie Dearest-in-law, father-in-law, and brother-in-law, and then the single-mother with whom the brother-in-law is now allegedly sleeping.  


Those Middletons are so classy!  Their shoulders must be worn away from all the rubbing.


Six is a crowd!  And Kate and William weren’t even there!


But Harry, Bea and “Euge” were.


That must bring home the thought to the newlyweds that, had things gone a bit differently on Mustique, Gilkey could be an in-law of the royal who’s the heir of the heir.


But then, that would have also made Gilke a Middleton husband and in-law.  Scroll down to the last photo here to see what that might look like:  


Not so long ago, one wouldn’t attend the wedding of an old flame for lots of reasons.


If one can read faces from the teensy photo of Charles and Anneke in the Daily Mail, as the newlyweds looked back uneasily and uncertainly at the surging crowd of new British royalty and Middletons and their mates that stared back at them, well....well....


Gilkey was probably thinking, “Wow, it was a lot easier to send out those invitations than it is to see that they all showed up!” 


He’s probably spending his honeymoon apologizing.


And not one photo of Charles’s or Anneke’s own parents made it into the Mail!


I guess that ordinary people are no longer news, even on their children’s big day.


Instead, England is all about bartenders.  The new British royalty.  The Middletons.


Once upon a time, the battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton.


Now, a new generation of wealthy bartenders is being birthed there.


And Scotland voted “NO?”


Ah well.  It’s a “Bunga Bunga” world.

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