The Writer's Life: Film & Book Reviews, Observations, and Stories
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Royal Condoms

While drawing shots from a well-used Italian espresso machine this morning, my barista wondered how to procure a packet of Kate and Andrew condoms. He imagined a picture of the royals kissing at the lubed end. I laughed out loud. It was a strange way to come to full consciousness on Easter.

Of course, when one thing ends, another begins. It is how it is in this life. There is no stopping, at least, not for long. Consciousness is a river that never repeats itself, though we imagine it does. Earlier, when I had actually woken up, after a series of desultory dreams about me as a tarnished hero, I thought, as I often do, we are responsible for what happens to us, not the other way around. It is mind-bending proposition, since we seem to have little control over anything, especially our thoughts. We always imagine ourselves to be the hapless playthings of fate.

Would having intercourse with a Kate and Andrew condom be more intense than normal? I’m thinking it would. One could imagine coupling royally. Of course, it would all be downhill from there. As Christopher Hitchens advised Kate: Run as fast as you can!

I’m hoping Kate will become another Diana, who grew lovelier and more feminine each time she rose above her circumstances. Literally, the most beautiful woman in the world until her tragic death in Paris. Was Diana responsible for her gruesome death at the hands of a drugged and drunken driver? According to my theory, yes. But how can that be?

Al-Fayed certainly didn’t think so. He claimed the royals had conspired to kill his son because of his origins. Huge projection there. Amazing really. But that’s what living in England does to you, even if you are as fabulously wealthy as Al-Fayed. You never feel good enough. Though it hardly matters. He’s given us Fulham FC and a great statue of Michael Jackson.

By the way, there is a very amusing article in The Guardian about Hitchens, written by his friend Martin Amis, in which he transforms this loathsome, objectionable man into a kind of modern saint. Oh, if I only could write as well as Amis, I’d have the world at my feet.