So BritPrince Rufus Castratus and his wife Caring-Slut head off to Africa to do Noble Things, said things including but not limited to hugging Black chilluns, waving their own baby around, and giving inspiring speeches to Third-World Yoot, telling them not to despair but to strive to achieve the kinds of things otherwise only available to people born into noble families, or married into them, or to those of inherited wealth.
The problem, though, is that the African Adventure was supposed to be a giant PR stunt to assuage the storm of opprobrium which burst out when the Royal Ginger addressed a climate-scold conference, telling everyone to lower their carbon footprint, when in fact he’d swanned over to the conference on a series of filthy, polluting private jets.
And the African Adventure certainly started out that way for them; adoring crowds at every stop, lickspittle Press reports and millions of cute baby pics everywhere.
Because of royalty (his) and celebrity (hers), a certain amount of security would be needed because Africa, and (forgive the unconscious racism) there is no such thing as an “armored SUV” anywhere on the Darkie Continent except as owned by various criminal thugs of the Mugabe stripe who (quite sensibly) were not going to hand over their armored vehicles and leave themselves vulnerable to, well, the rest of Africa.
So the BritGov arranged for a few of these rhino-trucks to be flown over to Darkest Africa, creating in their wake a carbon footprint equivalent to the Krakatoa eruption (some slight exaggeration, but that’s the leitmotif of the International Climate Fear Set, isn’t it?). Needless to say, all the Perpetually Indignants are beside themselves with fury.
I kinda feel sorry for His Gingerness. He’s tried so hard to Do The Right Thing (as defined by his Hollywood slutwife): announced that they’re only going to have two children because social responsibility; given up birdshooting, boozing, foxhunting, eating meat, carousing and all the other stuff which made him lovable, and gone pretty much Full Woke (and we all know what perils lie there).
And that’s the problem right there. If you’re going to set yourselves up as the Duke and Duchess of Wokeshire, you’re always going to fuck up disastrously in some way or another no matter what you do, just because of the nature of your job (such as it is) and the minefield that is wokedom.
Stop to eat some local delicacy at a roadside vendor? Don’t you know that the animal which gave up its testicles for you is on the U.N. Endangered Species List?
Attend a tribal dance festival, put on some of the dancers’ duds and join in the dance? OMG that cultural appropriation is SO disrespectful!
Watch your cousin ride in some equestrian competition? Don’t you KNOW how much the horses suffer?
And so on.
There’s a simple solution to all of this for old Harry:
- ditch the slutwife, keep the kid (and I have some support for this)
- start doing again all the things he used to enjoy before the Mulatto Actress Infatuation (boozing, bonking blondes, birdshooting, driving fast cars, doing all four of those things at the same time, etc.)
- tell the whiny wokescolds to fuck off — he’s a Royal, FFS, and he doesn’t need anyone’s approval to do anything
But he’s never going to go there, is he? Because in terms of becoming King of Britishland, his brother (and his expanding brood) has relegated Rufus pretty much to the 2nd XI, inheritance-wise; and without being the Woke Prince, therefore, all he would have left to do is open supermarkets, attend formal balls, go to church with Granny, and hand out the trophies at the Upper Twittering Boys Athletics competition.
Just like all the other minor royals, in other words.
But at least he’d get his balls back.