Let me be clear: I have no hatred for royalty, nor their weddings. Derision, yes, but not hatred. I find them entertaining in the same way all marriages are – a guessing game, a test to see who has the stronger will. How long will the prospective husband manage to avoid the murderous wrath of a woman scorned, or how will she react to his insistence that socks belong on the little orb thing at the bottom of the bannister?
Watching a marriage fall apart is entertaining. Watching a royal marriage fall apart, then, should be akin to an epic televisual event. The wedding itself will promise as much, with the grand precession and the copious amounts of “gold” “ornaments” and “finery”. Unfortunately, owing to the neutered state of our monarchy, that will not happen.
Naturally, I have had to fix that. Gone are the day where a good divorce would lead to a period of national strife, war, and the sort of darkness that fellows like myself thrive in. Opportunity cyclones, where the honest and the chronically unimaginative are blown away while myself and others stand safe in the centre, enjoying the breeze. But sometimes a game will come along and remind me that such things happened once, and that perhaps they could return.
When The Sims Medieval was thrown across my desk like a box-shuriken, I immediately cast it into the grinding incinerator I keep within casting distance. The box jammed itself into the gears, superheated iron grinding against cheap plastic, the room filling with steam from the aggrieved engine that powered the whole thing. As I had little else to do that day – as is the case with most days, if I so choose – I carved the game a small space on my hard disk and rescued the disc.
Rather a lot of the game revolves around doing things for others, which I won’t discuss. But my King character took the time away from dragon slaying and peasant cleaving to bed every woman in the Watch, and that is something I will discuss.
The conceit that royalty were given a divine right to rule is something I can lend my approval to. The idea is clearly false, for if there were a god he would not have chosen half of the gibbering tools he is claimed to have selected, but it is something a clever monarch can abuse to his heart’s content. Even clever non-monarchs such as myself have made fantastic headway with a maiden by claiming to be of royal lineage. It does help if you own a crown, however. My King character exploited this mercilessly, and before long he had his own private army of love-crazed sex assassins to do his every whim. That was, when they weren’t duelling each other for sole possession of his royal sceptre.
King Mercurio the Wise and Most Noble allowed these contest – if he was to have a wife, she would be strong in body, weak in mind, large in breast, and serviceable with sword. This was why, after the unexpected tournament concluded, King Mercurio rose from his throne, relieved himself, and then selected the third runner up to be his wife. The other women were fed to the serrated tentacle beast that lived in the village pit.
The new Queen served her King well for a time, staying out of his way unless he required a useful vessel for bestowing envy upon the peasants. But eventually, as happens with all my marriages, the love evaporated, gone like a ghost on the breeze. A breeze blown from the mouths of the several peasant woman the Queen had discovered in the King’s bed. She was not pleased, and a divorce was on the cards.
Medieval divorces were usually instigated by one party divorcing the other’s head from their shoulders. They were rarely amicable. Queen Kaitlin the Treacherous and Most Vile began soliciting aid from the court assassin, Leandra. The King was too bust bedding the court sorceress to notice such things, even when the Queen chose to hold her discussions with the assassin at the foot of the King’s bed.
Leandra’s plan was simple enough: seduce the King, have him let his guard down, then insert a blade so far up his urethra that the hilt would look like an unusual sort of genital jewellery. Unfortunately for her, King Mercurio was guided by a divine hand – mine. I stepped in, making him sentence his Queen to a trip to the deepest recesses of serrated tentacle country, while having Leandra locked in the stocks for exactly seventeen tomatoes. She would have received a harsher punishment, were blading the softest parts of the male anatomy not her express purpose at court.
There was no rebellion for the King’s actions in this event. No pressure groups decried him, no guardsmen withheld their labour, no gossip magazines published headlines like “QUEEN’S HANDSERVANT TELLS ALL: KING MERCURIO SIRED LIZARD BABY AND COVERED IT UP”. No, the kingdom went about their business, with the whole event being remembered as something to distract from the fact that their day to day lives revolved around mud-shovelling.
Now, will this upcoming wedding do that? Has it distracted you from the unbearable tedium of your own life? Perhaps it has. Perhaps the intricate nuances of what Princess Von Toff will be wearing to her wedding, or what Prince LeBland will have as his vows, has fried the parts of your brain that stop you reading Heat or Nuts or Zoo or Bollocks Weekly. But for the thinking, learned man such as myself, this wedding is no more special than any other.
Rings will be exchanged, lies will be swapped, your yearly wage will be spent on a dress and a cathedral and a military procession, complete with gold-plated tanks and helicopters mounted to humvees with diamond clasps, driven by footmen dipped in crude oil. When everything is complete, and the loving stares become hate-filled glares of intent, the inevitable implosion will require the keen minds of the tabloids to emulate to anything approaching entertainment. More lies will need creating, more events fabricated to cover up for the fact that the most interesting thing to occur within the divorce settlements was an argument over who got custody of which corgi.
When the divorce comes, will Kate stick a stiletto so far up the prince’s penile aperture that a sentient catheter would be jealous? Unlikely.