I know she's a poor mother, a rotten, timid, cowardly monarch and a shameless leech on the public purse - and you can fuck off with that tourism schtick - but this current behaviour takes the fucking biscuit. Her old man is an old man, ninety-two, and he will die soon, maybe very soon. What on Earth does Brenda Battenberg think she's playing at? Royal duties? Duties my arse. Nobody gives a fuck if she turns up or if it's some other old floozy in a tiara, and if they do give a fuck, they shouldn't. People who crave the odour of Ruritanian tree-planting or ribbon-cutting are morons who need disappointing, need to be stood-up by RoyalFilth, anyway.
She must be believing her own press cuttings, sixty years' hard work without a break, aye, right, just four or or five months holiday a year, cruises and trips all around the world, chauffeured, pampered and spoonfed by batallions of hiSsing arsewipers. Oh, but Mr Ishmael, we mustn't forget those pesky red boxes that she pretends to read, every day she pretends to do it, that can't be easy. No, must be murder, holding Thatcher and Blair and the rest to account even though she doesn't, signing-off on wars, recession, unemployment, murder, torture and now the dismantling of the welfare state - the only decent thing about her rotten reign.
She should go and sit beside her husband until he's better, I know they parented a quartet of ghastly misfits and the extended family is just as bad but life isn't, as she seems to think, a monarchical endurance test, her duties are, by any rational compass, meaningless pomp and circumstance; never too late, even for one as staggeringly redundant as Brenda, to show a little human compassion, even frailty. If she doesn't, this hideous, inhuman, chilly reserve may blow up in her face, again.