Welcome to Feel Goodish Friday!
Three things in the world we can feel goodish about this week:
1. We are not on hols with Theresa May. At the end of a lovely evening sinking Chianti in a swanky hotel bar in Italy, when the pianist began to play the opening bars of God Save the Queen (as a joke, SURELY) our Treeza’s response was to spring to her leopard-print-clad feet and deliver a proud, heartfelt recital for the whole bar. Treeza, you need to learn how to holiday like a true Brit; get yourself down to Magaluf, do the conga topless, sink some Jager bombs and give a couple of blow-jobs live on stage for beer. THAT is taking our culture abroad. THAT is patriotism. THAT is my kinda holiday…
2. We are not Prince Henrik of Denmark. This week he announced that he absolutely will never ever allow his body to be buried next to his wife, Queen Margrethe, because he’s still massively fucked off he was never given the title ‘King’. “Issnot FAIR!” he bleats from his private vineyard in France where he spends all day getting spangled on Beaujolais, “when girls marry a King they get to be Queen, but when boys marry a Queen, we only get to be pissy Princes”. He is now 83 so this resentment has had time to build. Also, Queen Margrethe is STILL ALIVE so he’s really, erm, banging the nail in the coffin of their marriage. The lesson: if your husband needs to be referred to as King, he almost certainly only deserves to be a pissy Prince.
3. We don’t have to live in SamCam’s ‘shabby’ Cotswolds home. The rich love to make out they’re not flash and Samantha Cameron doesn’t disappoint in a feature for Harper’s Bazaar where she makes a point of pointing out the falling-down roof and rotting windows of her country ‘cottage’ which is almost as big as Buckingham Palace. Also: in the article she makes repeated use of the word ‘chillax’. She needs to become irrelevant as a matter of urgency.
The award for Outstanding Public Feel Goodishness this week goes to: Steve Coogan. For bringing Alan Partridge back to the telly in the spring as the ‘Hard Brexit voice of Little England.’ After which, whenever faced with a Little England Brexit twat, we can confidently quote their loopy rhetoric back to them using the voice and script of Partridge. WE NEED THIS.
The award for Outstanding Private Feel Goodishness this week goes to: youngest’s psychologist, who paid us a home visit this afternoon in order to conduct OCD-bashing experiments like throwing food on the floor, then picking it up and eating it. Youngest smashed every exercise with a huge grin on his face. This is our NHS. This is what happens in this country when a young boy is diagnosed with a condition that could otherwise defeat him for the rest of his life. The system CAN WORK. Also: the house looks marvs as I spent all day cleaning so the psych wouldn’t realise the boy only has germ-related OCD coz he lives in a PIT.
May your weekend be spent giving as many blow-jobs for beer as you deem patriotic and no national anthem recitals unless you’re a twat.
See you Monday, Kings and Queens 💋