by Arpita Ashok
What a bloody weekend! The Jubilee Celebrations – what fun! Those commoners really do know how to throw a party (and a punch or two after a couple of gins but such spirit nonetheless!).
After 50 years, one starts to look back on one’s life choices, especially through the grim lens of a ghastly 4-day-bender-hangover. For example, the Duke of Edinburgh – would one do that all over again? Perhaps not – too much royal revenue spent on damage control.
Happily, one’s wardrobe has always been a forté, not a faux pas, as our less crown-friendly friends across the choppy channel might say. The wonderful people always agree that I look positively delectable. No really! I’m 86 and that Mirren woman is nothing on me, Philipops assures. Not that one has much competition from Catherine and Camilla – the ugly sisters! Thigh-grazing skirts and wasting away at the waist, or flashing gums and breasts with gay abandon is not endearing. Crap hair too! Where is the PR in that, one wonders?!
Now, one has managed to pick up a trick or two over the years and as a beautiful, wise but most importantly, benevolent leader one is more than happy, indeed proud, to share them with you. So, pay great attention, my loyal subjects, as you are guided through tough sartorial times, towards a monarchical makeover.
Your beloved Queen is a fool for a two-piece. Have your favourite couturier sew several up.
Here is a little secret. During one’s Jubilee celebrations, boredom set in as the breakfast champagne wore off. One managed to sneak out along Oxford Street to find a wonderful display. Topshop has a cheap and cheerful range (Kate probably frequents…) charmingly named ‘Co-ords’. Suits of periwinkle, pink and baby blue – there is bound to be a colour for you. That rhymes. Perhaps it should be added to the national anthem. One must make a few calls.
Pair with a matching hat, of course. Official Royal Shun: Princess Beatrice for her beige levitating-bow-headgear unleashed at the Wedding. Traitorous. The apple doesn’t fall far from the (maternal) tree. We are not amused.
For the most elegant of occasions, diamonds are a girl’s best friend. A sparkly white gown creates exactly the right atmosphere for meeting other Heads of State (although are there any?? Last I heard I am essentially Queen of the World) and the charming common folk. Wear weighty heirlooms around one’s neck and a huge crown. If there’s no migraine, there aren’t enough diamonds.
Bedazzling outfits are best avoided to encounter dull politicians. Imagine sparkles refracting off of Cameron’s already luminescent moon face. Ghastly.
The quintessential English Rose saves the day. Floral dresses are wonderful for any smart occasion and one might be persuaded to ditch the crown. As Queen of the Commonwealth, one is pleased to dub that Erdem chap King of Florals. Venture to ASOS Salon for some tasteful options that pay homage to the King.
Never be seen without one’s Corgis. Two for the day, three for an extravagant evening. No, five… Nay, eleven! Don’t stop one now, as my favourite band and namesake would say.
In Parliament, to handle the official biz, one likes to be fur-clad (see dregs of winter sales) with giant golden chain, kindly provided by my good friend and musical idol, Snoop Dogg.
Accessorise with the Fam. The hapless husband and son, brazenly toting the Other Woman, watched by the twinkly-eyed newly weds, gawked at through the vodka-blurred eyes of the younger grandson (actually one’s favourite – not just because he allows one an occasional swig from the hipflask).
For an authentic look, the loyal subject is selling one’s undergarments from the ‘60s on ebay. That is exactly the spirit that made this nation great. May you be happy and glorious in wardrobe and see you at the Platinum!