A Bridegroom, a Bride, and a Serf

The Royal Wedding as the spectacle for the masses.

A Bridegroom, a Bride, and a Serf

Mobile  networks are totally down in the downtown. Helicopters whir overhead. Somewhere around the Green Park, sirens are heard. The orchestra plays “Star Wars.” We’re fighting our way to the Buckingham Palace. The pedestrian cross under the Hyde Park has not been cleaned properly; it’s still as full of spit and chewing gum as usual.

The end of April 2011 will be remembered by the mankind as the day of marriage between Prince William and Kate Middleton. The sick agitation around this weird event testifies that it is still the same for the humanity, with the masses are still in place, and they traditionally lust for the king to rule them. Although the mythology of the royal fairy tale hides the slave/master hierarchy degrading for any sort of dignity. A serf gapes open-mouthed, and he sees only a fairy tale. He will very seriously participate in a JRRT-themed role-playing game, side by side with noblemen, aristocracy, only without any dragons, alas.

The magic of power forms infantile notions about “real beauty in life” in a Philistine. The pompous and coarse wedding ceremony with the subsequent metamorphosis “from rags to riches” is the dildo image for those dreamy crimson sheep that are hypnotized with the throne totem, and the enforced concept of “acting prince.”

A spectator of the Royal Wedding as the archetypal show is degraded to a servile status, and he or she is filled with the perverted loftiness of a worm beneath a mountain. The wedding extravaganza sets the tone for following mass fantasies; it defines the “proper order of things” that should be “strived for.” The blue blood ceremony realizes the impudent NLP for a hollow collective. This ceremony is an act of covert violence.

The beautiful couple surrounded by beautiful people, buildings, and old traditions… We don’t have anything like this, and we’ll never have. So we might as well look at it.

The charm of the past infected with the criminal monarchy and the necros of tradition. Aren’t the symptoms obvious here in the commoner in love with the cruel dead dictator? Nevertheless, millions of people in the 21st century turn out to be hungry for the spectacle of their masters’ sexual prelude. Everything happens at the backdrop of royal vaults, in the country that used to be able to exclaim, “God save the Queen and Her Fascist Regime!”

The Royal Wedding demonstrates not only the Kafkaesque waxwork parade or group love in a coffin but an actual fantasy of masses. A dog wags its tail, and there is a manifesto prayer heard from cyber comments,

I’m all for the monarchy and all this beauty. I’m for the cheer from the crowds. They wave their hands to each other, and they say, “All is well, we’re all still in place.” The British Royal Family understands that all of them are their subjects, and their subjects realize that those people are their kings and princesses. This is a real stability, no matter how symbolic it might be. I wish we had that kind of monarchy preserved. We might have been standing in the streets too now, loud and happy.

Some idolater is indignant though,

And I’m sad at the fuzzification of class distinctions. A prince marries a nobody.

There are those who are content with the pitiful little,

At least, it’s a hypothetical possibility to be involved in something you could only dream about before. Isn’t it unbelievably romantic and beautiful? Now, every girl will dream not only about being a model but she will probably think that she might become, for example, “only a duchess.”

Crowd’s thawed seed is a-boil with this intoxicating dream,

Ultimately, what is it but one large family that marries their eldest son, and isn’t it what the entire mankind feels like? At least, its progressive part that sits glued to their screens, no matter who they are, Americans, Chinese or Russians.

What a hat! What stained glass, and oh, this ring is too tight, pity. Scabrous eyes of the people feel the bodies of the gala theatrical sets of flesh and titles, and millions of voyeurs salivate in stalactites at those triumphant squares. It seems as if night vision cameras come a-flash at any moment now, installed in the forever public womb of Kate Middleton, for the special broadcast of the “continued banquet.” Kate at her genial bed in her Diana mask. Kate at her genial bed in her Elizabeth II mask. It would be only logical to let the people in and let the crowd devour the groombride, champing and rejoicing, complete with brooches and bed sheets. Without a modicum of cannibalism, these apotheoses are devoid of necessary catharses.

The prince and his bride exchange their rings. A young man close to me pretends he’s masturbating.

Again and again,

Well, they still cannot bear with Kate’s low origins.

The man in the street muses and fantasizes,

I wonder what they are talking about as they drive along. Probably, the weather. Oh darling, what a beautiful day today. Oh yes, my dear, look, it’s cloudy but not cold. And thank goodness, there’s no rain.

The aesthetics of ugliness in these remarks knows no limits,

No, she says to him, “When you come home don’t forget to take your shoes off, and put them on the shelf. You always throw your things around, your sword is on the dinner table, and your helmet is in the lavatory. Enough already. I’m not your babysitter to clean your mess after you.”

And here now, when “one might go deaf from the cries of delight,” there a vision of another order is born. At once, one wishes this fairy tale to become real and true, and some real dragon to come down, and the fires to burn up, so that there are no words anymore. Only the Buckingham Palace’s charred remains, and millions of silent coals, and no more slaves, no more gods or masters.