Okay, Beatrice (can I call you Bea?). You're about to turn eighteen. When your mum and dad ask you what you fancy doing for your birthday, you think about it and say, "I'd like a costume party." Any particular theme? "1888, I think." It's a little specific, but at least it ensures a degree of accuracy. Besides, all your friends and family are richer than creosote, so they can afford it. Because you're Princess Beatrice. Your mum is Fergie. Your dad is the Duke of York. Your grandma is the Queen.
Being a princess, Bea, you're well aware that news of this will reach the papers. You have official pictures taken with your parents and your sister, all decked out in your glory. Your dress cost £10,000 and you're pretty chuffed with it, even if your hair might have needed a little assistance. You wait for the photos to appear in the papers: won't it be nice to see a happy family snapshot after all the mad headlines and unflattering pictures, especially of your mum?
And then all this happens. There are headlines and editorials screaming that it's a disgrace. Why, Bea? Did you get really drunk, fall over and show your 1888 split bloomers? Did you eat a bad prawn and throw up all over Wills? Did you scream abuse at a paparazzo? No, you didn't. It's all right, Bea. All you did was have a nice party with your friends, all dressed up in those pretty pretty dresses. Why is everyone so mad? Because you had a party?
Well, yes. You see, you're not allowed to. I'm sorry, Bea. I know it's your big day, able to vote, able to drink, able to get married without your parents' consent, able to get into all those thrilling nightclubs Wills and Harry have been telling you about--but a party? A themed one? No, no. It's a round of lager in the pub, my sweet. That's all you're allowed. It's because you're so rich, Bea. £10,000 on a frock? All that mindless extravagance? On a party? Who do you think you are, Victoria Beckham?
Didn't you read in the papers the other day, that someone's worked out how much us loyal subjects pay in taxes each year to support your grandma? 62p a year. Sixty-two whole pence. For every tax payer! I know, it's extortionate! That's more than a pint of milk! You could buy a big bag of Monster Munch for that! 62p! I don't know how you sleep at night, Bea, I really don't. All that money being extorted from us. For someone on minimum wage, that amounts to about seven minutes of working time. Seven minutes a year! All for those gilt-encrusted carriages, those pastel suits, those hats.
I hope you're ashamed of yourself, Bea. Next time you want to have a nice party, won't you please think of us proles, and how upsetting it is to see you splashing your money about like that, enjoying yourself. Enjoying! I hope you're proud of yourself, and how much you've hurt us all.
A themed party for your eighteenth. Disgraceful.