Monday, August 06, 2007

Princess Margaret: Rejected Regent?

Newly-released State papers reveal that prior to her coronation in 1953, the Queen changed her will to prevent her sister, Princess Margaret, from becoming Regent of England in the event of Her Majesty's untimely death. Princess Margaret would have been the nearest adult in the succession until Prince Charles reached the age of 18 in 1966.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketThe Queen's will is said to have favoured the Duke of Edinburgh for such a role, in the unlikely event that it would be needed.

Nevertheless, given the astonishing amount of travel undertaken by the Queen in the early years of her reign, not to mention the political timbre of the end of the Colonial era, every eventuality had to be anticipated.

Princess Margaret did serve as a counsellor of state during some of the Queen's travels, allowing her access to the fabled red boxes, from whence most of the Queen's paperwork emerges. She also met with the Privy Council, in addition to her other royal duties, in this role.

It appears that Margaret declined the role of Regent, and also that the Queen's own loyalty to her husband in this era (when he was still quite unpopular with the Establishment) may have motivated the action.

Naturally, there will be no further explanation forthcoming from Buckingham Palace.

[S O U R C E]
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How The Straight Media Covers Queer Events

I picked up this week's Westender mainly out of prurient interest.

Photo Sharing and Video Hosting at PhotobucketSee that little blurb there next to the shot of the very hot, oily guy? It says "How Can You Find Love At Pride?" To which I might add: how can you not pick up a paper with a headline like that, especially if you're a love-starved homo with a better chance of being killed by a meteorite?

Turns out the article in question is just a summation of the various Pride Day dances and parties. It's written by a gay guy, so I'll at least give the Westender credit for that. However, the gay guy in question is a little shitheel named Michael Harris. I've had many run-ins with him in the past, and none of them have been good.

He used to work at the gay bookstore, where his principal skill involved not serving me. He'd help the three or four people in line ahead of me, and then either refuse to serve me or he'd skip over me and help the person in line behind me. This happened at least half a dozen times, and only ended when I finally stopped shopping at Little Sister's because of it.

I realise the healthy thing to do would be to let go of this particular grudge. Only I don't want to.

The truth of the matter is, the only way to find love at Pride Day is to look like the hot, oily guy on the cover. The only one with the guts to speak the truth, it seems, is me.
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Another Proud Day in Vancouver

Most of my Pride Day coverage, understandably, is over at Self-Loathario. Consider this your warning.

Because of where my party sat, I didn't get many pictures. Had I taken any, they would have all had that damn 7-11 logo in them. But the thought of striking out on my own and spending the entire Parade surrounded by strangers was not an acceptable situation. So instead I sat surrounded by friends and just watched. It felt very safe.

As usual, Pride Day amazes me, and I think it's the sheer variety of people on display that has always amazed me most. I'm glad for them, mostly, that they can be so open and proud of who and what they are. I just wish I could.

Another of the great things about Pride Day is how it functions as a celebration to enable people to triumph over past hurts. We've all been viciously oppressed, and to some extent still are. Yet not taking it personally is a skill I've never developed. Whereas the majority of the revellers seemed to not care that there are untold thousands of people in this very city today who would gladly murder the lot of us, it's just about all I can think of; every time a balloon pops I find myself wondering who planted the bomb and where. Maybe it's time to get out of security and start trusting people again.

Anger borne of frustration is more or less my default setting. Generally speaking, I defuse it with humour, or try to. My success or failure in this depends largely on your sense of humour. It doesn't bother me, though, if someone doesn't find me funny, since humour is subjective. So why does it bother me so much that when it comes to that other great subjective - looks - I'm such a loser.

I guess we all want what we can't have.
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Ramones - "I Wanna Be Sedated"

Call it "I Need To Be Sedated" and it'll describe me even better, especially after my shameful display at Pride Day yesterday.

Nevertheless, I do enjoy the sedation, so either way it's an accurate anthem.
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