The Wax Conspiracy

Kings, Queen and the royal tanning farms

After weeks on months, the royal flushing of the media system is near complete. Four turns of the pagentry of a royal connection—tangental, relational—dovetailing around the fall of one weekend.

Flying in on his royal oats tour with a handful of bare breasts for show, Prince Charles continued his footprint of marital sobriety and shock to invade the locals amongst sheep in New Zealand. Keeping up the fine tradition of holding back true familiarity with the British monarchy, the King in a stasis of forever limbo, fielded rather lack lustre crowds during his time in the land of the aborigines.

Crowds which found themselves flocking like fleas on the backs of homeless in the wake of the Fred and Mary juggernaut. Bagels on the Danish royals. A behemoth of media proportions exploding daily on the streets of newsprint and television on each footstep around the country. Each turn of the Princess' cheek, each Princely wink, snagged, tagged, bagged and gagged dry of any blood before setting up the gimp for one more night in the talcum powder of "fairy tale happiness" in the harsh light of day.

As Mary Donaldson showed to the hordes of buck-toothed yokels and sunburnt cancer sores, fairytales can come true. A hope that the many supporters of the Sydney Kings crave to cherish as their beloved team continue thrashing the Hawks of Wollongong in the run to an historic third consecutive NBL championship.

A feat which will no doubt make them media darlings for at least two nights in a row. Champions climbing up high on a mountain top of crazy love like that bestowed upon the glorious, magnificent and regretful conclusion of the Australian run of Queen and Ben Elton's rock musical, We Will Rock You.

Any way the wind blows.

Ethan Switch

Written on Monday, 14 March 2005

The Wax Conspiracy

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