I've been to the flicks to visit The Queen. With Bernhilde. I've always been a fan of Her Maj's eyebrows and was shocked this afternoon, when I googled "Queen Elizabeth's eyebrows", to learn that the internet has been (until now, my fellow subjects) entirely devoid of the phrase. What, prithee, is the point of having access to four billion websites if none of them explicitly refers to the majesterial eyebrows of one of the world's most un-topiaried living monarchs? I exhort you all to go forth and publish prolifically on this most pressing of topics.
Needless to say, my enthusiasm for a royal eyebrow doesn't extend to an enthusiasm for the institution of monarchy. Quite enough hereditary privilege going around these days without needing to set up a symbol of hereditary privilege and bow down 'n' worship. Just who are these monarchists, anyway? Where do they buy their vegetables? What do they read? Do they turn into corgies when there's a full moon? I do know one, actually. He's a charming young whippersnapper, patrician from his breakfast kippers to his bowtie, with an Anglophilia that seems just another posture in a perfectly sustained and vaguely camp performance piece. But the rest of you, all you willing Commonwealth subjects, where are you? You're a majority (so our constitution would suggest), but with the exception of my kipper-eating friend, I don't believe we've met.
Anyway, this film: well cast; not enough eyebrow action for my liking; most of the audience tittered their way through heavy-handed allusions to royal foibles in a way that implied their personal acquaintance with Club Windsor. Not having perused the appropriate numbers of the Woman's Weekly, I couldn't join in.