Imagine being born with an innate sense of superiority; not just a ‘cash money’ sense of superiority, but the royal kind; the kind that comes with great responsibility and — in most cases — a luxurious lifestyle. Historically, this meant that while you lived in a palace, rode in a carriage and had your privates washed for you*, you were also ignored by your parents, lacking certain social skills and in constant fear of being usurped by an ambitious relation — or your dissatisfied populace. Is it any wonder, then, that King Henry VIII insisted on having six wives, King George III was committed to a straightjacket, or that Queen Elizabeth I was often heard making the threat: “I will make you shorter by the head”? These people, deprived of a regular existence, became deranged.

In modern times — in the Western world, at least — the threat of revolution and treason has subsided, as has the importance placed on the monarchy. Accordingly, as the British Royal Family loses its relevance, it would be fair to assume that the drama would abate as well. Not so! Sure, we can see how stylish and ‘human’ the blue-blooded are when they grace the covers of magazines. But those brilliant smiles and receding hairlines are unable to conceal one indisputable fact: despite their dignified upbringing, they love a scandal. Take, for example, Princess Stéphanie of Monaco, who ran off with a Portuguese trapeze artist; or the incomparable Sarah ‘Fergie’ Ferguson, who drunkenly betrayed her ex-husband to the media; and, of course, let’s not forget Kate Middleton’s uninspiring taste in fashion — all have committed crimes that have lost them the respect of their people. Although, at least they have drawn the line at inbreeding: if you ever want to feel normal, just look up King Charles II of Spain, whose grandmother was also his aunt. Yet, however disturbing their behaviour might be, we will never tire of the tales of royal shortcomings. Perhaps we find it reassuring that these people, despite all their pomp and ceremony, are just like the rest of us — sans privacy.

* As seen in Coming To America.
Image: George Condo (‘Insane Queen’, 2006).

Romance Was Born

majestic old room
surrounding books, daylight lit
the show started late

an endless front row
I wanted to sing along
‘Goodbye Horses’

models looked like
Princess Leia on acid
their shoes, they were flat

prints, lace and colour
it was all in the detail
Cate Blanchett was there

over the top theatre
the clothes, the make-up, the hair
not good for the beach

each look dramatic
some we found puzzling
but liked all the same

voices softly sang
‘Never Ending Story’
there was loud clapping

http://oystermag.com/rafw-review-in-haiku-romance-was-born

It’s been too long!

A nice, ripe hunk of Munster — or ‘monster cheese’ as it is often called — can bring about either moans of delight or shouts of horror from any given individual. To evoke the smell, think of someone you know who does a lot of sport, or wears sneakers without socks. Even better: think of someone who does both these things. Now, imagine bringing their sneaker to your nose and inhaling. Slowly. That odour could be likened to the smell of the Munster and yet die-hard fans are unswayed by such comparisons.

The Greeks like their cheese — most notably feta — salty and sharp in flavour. The Cypriotes have haloumi: a cheese that is best fried before being eaten. Genius! The Italians have their mozzarella, Burrata, Tellegio, Gorgonzola… all cheeses that can stand on their own as a dish. And then, of course, there is France — the land of cheese. As President Charles de Gaulle put it during his reign in the sixties, “How can anyone govern a nation that has two hundred and forty-six different kinds of cheese?” To which we say, “But Monsieur de Gaulle — consider the perks!” (Just what type of cheese the Moon is made from, scientists have not yet determined.)

Cheese was first made around 10,000 years ago and was an important addition to our diet. High in calcium and protein, cheese is essential for bone development and (should you need it) weight gain. For a long time, cheese production was a simple concept — the product of a bucolic life — until the Romans turned cheese making into an art form and the consumption of quality cheese became the ultimate luxury. The curdled milk of (for the most part) cows, goats and sheep, all cheese boasts the same humble
beginnings, however there are as many processes as there are types. Consider the Roquefort: a blue cheese, aged in the Combalou caves in the South of France, given its name by the fungus it houses — Penicillium roqueforti. The texture is at once smooth and crumbling, and the taste, like having sex with an ex: a little bitter at first, yet creamy, and afterwards there are the remnants of something almost sweet. Not many of the things that we eat can evoke this kind of response.