The Princess and the Pea-brained

A cancer is coming for the Royal Family—and I don't mean Kate's.

It was a fairy tale as old as time. Blushing maiden gets plucked from obscurity to marry the handsome prince and live every little girl’s dream.

Then the clock strikes midnight and your wicked brother and sister-in-law turn into rats.

When Kate Middleton landed the Whale of the Century, the Wales firstborn, a million commoners shared the W with her in spirit. Young Catherine, like young Meghan Markle, and like every other 40 year-old woman on Earth today, had done the math when they were teenagers to figure out if they had a chance to encounter one of Diana’s boys.

In fact, I remember my mother doing the William math for my little sister, who is Kate’s age, as we pondered the chances of her being the one. After all, we had Scottish friends at St. Andrews University! We had an in! My brunette sister even looks a little like Kate, with those dimples and good bones. But alas, my sister went to college in California and met an American husband (with a Scottish surname).

Every sentient woman with a daughter roughly his age, worldwide, had this same thought. Including, of course, the heroic Carole Middleton, who did what any good mother would do to engineer a meeting between her daughter and the heir to the throne—and make it look casual, accidental, effortless.

I don’t even blame her. After all, how could anyone resist a chance to be a real-life Cinderella? It’s baked in to the female brain. From Grimm’s Fairy Tales to 50 Shades of Gray, this is What Women Want, deep down in their primeval lizard hearts.

Kate Hate

Ever since William and Kate’s spectacular wedding, I’ve been rooting for the princess. American women came together that day to revel in her victory. A commoner had done it and looked fabulous doing it. What a day! Elizabeth Woodville lives!

In the years since, she’s never put a foot wrong. Her glorious, natural English beauty has injected some much-needed premium female genetics into a line that, let’s be honest, has not produced much in the way of looks.

The House of Windsor has been in want of a wife with a pert snub nose for centuries.

And in a stroke of great luck for the monarchy, she understands and accepts the job and all that it entails—which is to support and protect both her future kings at all costs, period.

She is modeling herself on the old battle ax, who understood the value of quiet dignity. No one has quiet dignity anymore. It’s out of fashion, a totally useless appendage in the age of TikTok car confessionals. But the Duchess of Cambridge understands that taking part in the sanctum sanctorum of the last and greatest of the European royal houses requires adopting a lifestyle that’s much closer to that of a cloistered nun or hermitic monk than a Kardashian’s.

You are required to take a vow of silence and practice impeccable decorum. You are required to never explain or complain. To renounce your former life of carefree shopping and brunch and gossip. You can’t get drunk in public, or smoke a cigarette, or like the wrong post by accident. You can’t yell at your kids in the grocery store or be photographed in the drive-thru at In N Out. You must wear special ceremonial clothing at moments not of your choosing and attend events you didn’t schedule.

You have two modes: in hiding at home, or On Display.

Life as a royal is a sacrificial vocation and not a lousy celebrity lifestyle. Though you live in opulence, you are forbidden from enjoying it too much—except perhaps in private moments when you get to caress the priceless borrowed jewels your dresser clasps around your neck before the ball.

This level of self-effacement is actually a form of self-preservation. The Royals know that their ability to continue existing in a rarified social tier is quite tenuous, as a cursory glance at their neighbor across the Channel proves. If you look like you’re milking it or abusing the privilege, you will not last.

Meghan Markle, the Queen of Kate Hatred, didn’t understand any of this, or didn’t care. She knew going in that she didn’t have a sacrificial bone in her body and plotted to twist her job as Royal Arm Candy to the Spare into the tawdry celebrity lifestyle she craved. If she couldn’t be Kate, she would beat Kate.

Meghan’s garish jealousy of her sister-in-law found a willing partner in Harry’s simmering jealousy of his older brother, and the two of them plotted to bring down the entire edifice.

It actually almost worked! So far, Harry and Meghan’s body count is impressive—even Hillary Clinton called them to offer her congratulations.

Prince Philip: dead. The Queen: dead. The King: cancer. Kate: cancer. Megan Markle’s voo doo doll collection is working overtime!

If I were Kate, I would have novitiates chanting prayers by the bedsides of my children day and night to ward off the evil Harryghan hex.

The last few months of gossip and speculation about the Princess’s surgery and extended disappearance from public view triggered a truly nauseating tsunami of hate online. Bitter Meghanistas crawled out of the woodwork to bash her, express their contempt for how she and William “abused” poor Meghan, and spread more rumors of the supposed “affair” William had with their filthy rich friend Rose Hanbury.

All of that came to a crashing halt yesterday with Kate’s quiet, dignified video announcing her shocking cancer diagnosis.

You saw it.

In a moment, she shut down them haters. Celebrities ran to Instagram to apologize for getting swept away by the Katred.

It was over. She was back. And shockingly, she has cancer. And is undergoing chemo which may rob her of her gorgeous hair. The message of her video was hopeful; preventative chemo likely means there’s no tumor but they are doing it to kill stray cancer cells. She’ll recover, live a long life, and be Queen of England one day, I pray. I am rooting for her, still.

The Real Cancer is Metasticizing—and There’s No Chemo

Now for the really bad news: Underlying all this Sturm und Kate about the Princess’s illness is another fatal disease, and this one is incurable. As you perhaps noticed in the wake of the Hamas genocide in Israel, London is now a hotbed of Islamic extremism. Millions of them call the U.K. home, but feel zero allegiance to their country.

The British Isles are dying. The Nothing is coming and there is no Childlike Empress to stop it.

“People have begun to lose their hopes and forget their dreams. So the Nothing grows stronger. It's the emptiness that's left. It's like a despair, destroying this world. People who have no hopes are easy to control; and whoever has the control... has the power.”

Side note: It’s such an iconic movie and the remake’s gonna suck real bad.

I hope and pray that Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge, Princess of Wales, heir to the throne and future Queen of the Realm gets well quickly. But Britain itself is in Stage Four terminal replacement, and the doctor says it’s irreversible, and surgery is of no use.

These are the citizens who will be asked to bow to the future King William and his Queen Catherine? Good luck with that! Their children are getting educated in radical madrassas in Liverpool, Birmingham, Manchester, Glasgow, Dublin, and London, where they will be taught that the Royal Family are racist colonizers who deserve nothing but scorn—and worse.

Britain’s public school system is even worse—they also teach that the English are racist white nationalists, and for good measure want to lop off your eight-year-old’s penis. Can’t have any heritage British people producing future loyal subjects.

Who do you imagine will line the Mall to cheer as the newly crowned King George makes his way from Westminster to Buckingham Palace 50 years from now? There will be no Royalists left. No graying pensioners waving Union Jacks to cheer him and celebrate later with a few pints at Ye Olde Prancing Pony. They will have to plate the golden carriage carrying the King with acid-proof plexiglass.

A Romanov family ending is more likely than a glorious coronation, frankly. It gives me no pleasure to say this, but the idiots in charge of the U.K. seems hellbent on writing this ending for itself.

Does anyone think the “Royal Family” will even last long enough for a King George? Instead, I see an aged William and Kate on the roof of Windsor Castle hoisting their children up a rope ladder into a hovering helicopter as rampaging Hamas-friendly mobs burn it all down and pillage the family heirlooms.

Wave goodbye, kids.

They will be forced into exile…well, where? Canada will suffer the same replacement soon, as will all the former U.K. colonies, which are busy colonizing their colonizer’s homeland and outbreeding them 10 to 1.

Perhaps they’ll move to the South Pacific and King-in-Exile George can rule over the last remaining British colony there: picturesque Pitcairn Island.

Of course, we all know what happened to the last Englishman who tried to colonize it.

Perhaps Montecito is a more appropriate haven for Royal exiles. See you soon, Kate!

The 1917 Far Afield mansion in Montecito would be perfect for their retirement—on sale now for just $68 mill.

Thanks for reading!

Love,

Queen Peachy

P.S. My book DOMESTIC EXTREMIST finally comes out in paperback on April 2nd!

Buy yours today!