Diary of a Queen: May 19th

Dear One’s Diary,

Following yesterday’s rather packed itinerary, today was meant to be a rather more relaxed affair as I visited the National Stud to inspect the quality of Irish horses these days. However, it had completely slipped my mind that Philip and I were attending separate engagements after the visit to the Stud, so I spent most of my time extremely apprehensive, convinced that he was going to go on a rampage, barking accusations at the natives and taking yesterday’s gift of a hurley to the heads of those he suspected of being involved in the death of Lord Mountbatten. I need not have worried, however, as he was perfectly well-behaved and didn’t do anything to upset the apple cart. My beautiful speech from last night must have convinced him that it was time to let bygones be bygones and move on in unity. I wrote most of it on my iPad on the flight over from London, you know, and still had time for a few levels of Angry Birds. It’s even more impressive when you consider that I was off my tits on Xanax to quell my flying nerves.

Despite being preoccupied with thoughts of what Philip might get up to, I did enjoy my time at the National Stud, although some of the horses had the look of Camilla about them, so I was careful to be on my guard in their presence. I must admit to reaching into my knickers to pat my lady-magnum a couple of times, which drew one or two strange glances. But fuck ‘em, I’m the Queen. I can do what I want.

So I had the afternoon off while Philip attended his engagement, which, as I mentioned, went surprisingly well. I relaxed at Farmleigh and spent a couple of hours reading Twilight: New Moon and drinking sherry. I'm determined to finish the series before the last film comes out. Then I downloaded a few episodes of Jersey Shore and put my feet up in my Snooki slippers to stare, aghast, at the latest adventures of those vile creatures. I really don’t know why I put myself through the torture of watching that show – it is possibly the strongest case for forced sterilisation of the vapid ever made. But it’s like a car crash in a Parisian tunnel – you can’t help but keep watching. I took 40 winks after that, then readied myself for my evening engagement.

I met Philip at the National Convention Centre where the British Ambassador was holding an Indoor Garden Party for us. And 2,000 other invited guests. I was curious as to what exactly an “Indoor Garden Party”, held in a giant corporate glasshouse, meant. It means lots of potted plants. There was a fashion show, which was terribly tedious. Nothing bores me more than fashion. I don’t need to see a parade of waifs suffering from malnutrition to tell me how to dress. I know I look fabulous all the fucking time. After the stick insects had scuttled off to vomit backstage, I had my auditory canals raped by the massive, throbbing penis of shit music, in the shape of Westlife. Clearly the Ambassador did not get the memo informing him that I was more in the mood for a bit of Epic Doom Metal or Swedish Industrial Techno Trance. I had 15 e-tabs in my handbag and not once did I feel like popping them. Mary Byrne and Eimear Quinn do not make one want to get loved up and lost in euphoria.

Tomorrow is my last day in Ireland, and I shall be visiting the Rock of Cashel and the English Market in Cork. I hope they sell souvenirs there. I promised Harry I’d get him one of those oversized Leprechaun hats.

Is mise,
Banríon Éilís a Dó