As I’ve mentioned before, the Danish royals are on welfare, but undeterred by such inappropriate considerations, they treated their Belgian peers to the best of everything. Sans the Prince Consort, who has taken his bat home to France after being denied kingship (again). A good time was had by all, especially the Crown Prince who does little else but have a good time, unlike his Tasmanian wife, the fashion queen of Scandinavia.
If you’d like to witness some conspicuous consumption, the Mail has it all:
Let the wind blow high
Let the wind blow low
Through the streets
In my kilt, I’ll go
All the lassies say hello
Donald, where’s your troosers
The former President cannot have been alone in seeking divine intervention yesterday, but only Auntie managed to read his mind. Some say it was unintentional, others are not so sure.
This is your Court correspondent, reporting on the life and work of Snowdon, just call him Tony.
Of course those society snappers faced awful temptations. Some resisted, I’m sure; others, like Tony, indulged. But (again of course, given the the tempora and the mores) the extent of the indulgence was never revealed.
After Meg succumbed to the curse of her cigs, Tony continued to bat for both sides, taking his latest handsome squeezes to be entertained to dinner by ‘friends’.
A full-colour fella, eh? RIP.
Le petit Nicolas schemes his way back to the top, despite his criminal cases. Will he be given another chance? Will it make any difference to France’s failing fortunes and Europe’s little local difficulties? Probably not, mes amis.