In a development that has sent shockwaves through the gin-and-tonic set at Lord’s, the Dutch royal family has somehow managed to dominate World Cup day. Yes, you heard that right. The Oranje have not only conquered the pitch but have also colonised the royal box, leaving the Windsors looking like a bunch of also-rans in ill-fitting tweed.
Queen Máxima, resplendent in a hat that could only be described as a ‘floral assault on the heavens’, was seen waving with the practised enthusiasm of someone who has just discovered the offside rule. Meanwhile, back in London, our own dear King Charles was reportedly spotted at Sandringham, polishing a carriage and muttering about ‘foreigners’ and their ‘football nonsense’. The irony is so thick you could spread it on a crumpet.
The British monarchy, which once gave the world the concept of ‘sporting greatness’, now finds itself warming the bench while a bunch of Dutch dairy farmers’ descendants steal the show. It’s enough to make a bulldog choke on its bone. But let us not forget: the Windsors’ sporting legacy is unmatched.
After all, who else can claim to have invented the ‘royal wave’, the ‘polo neck’, and the ‘difficult conversation about the coronation chicken’? Yes, we may have lost the colonies, but we still hold the crown for sheer, unadulterated pageantry. So let the Dutch have their day in the sun.
They’ll need it, because as we all know, the British monarchy doesn’t do solar eclipses. We do endless, grey, drizzly afternoons of quiet superiority. And on that note, I’m off to the pub.
The gin is calling, and I must answer.