The Rape of the Frock

Where is the English bard to immortalize the travails of the Princess of Wales? With apologies to Pope, HENRY PORTER picks up his lute and enters the fray

HENRY PORTER

"What dire offense from am'rous causes springs?

What mighty contests rise from trivial things?" Thus England's gnomish Pope did once exclaim

When youthful beauty's curls were grossly maimed,

And gave then to our glad aesthetic stock His rhymed account of swiftly severed lock.

He obliged the once tame and gentler sex With cunning sweetness of his versed effects, Mocking sharp and all well-mannered malice, Englishmen polite, though coldly callous.

Now two hundred years have gone by and more, And we see clearly what then young Pope saw— A parody of England's regal might,

With court beset by rumor, doubt, and spite.

There in the eye of a foul, dark'ning storm Stands a princess, chic and to shopping bom, Admired and still in fitting vernal prime But lowered now by photographic crime.

Not Sarah, the stout and bubbly sinner With spending itch of lottery winner,

But Di, the virgin bride and Queen of Hearts, Who has played her royal cards with ruthless arts,

And 'neath her shy, winning, and girlish glance

Has led Queen Beth on such a merry dance. Gliding from gym-crazed fitness obsession To Orbach's therapeutic confession,

Di plots a course so perilous between Public favor and all its vengeful spleen.

Thus far the winds have blown in her direction And backed her cause with a warm affection.' Yet will the strain soon begin to ail her, Bringing rats to scent the air for failure?

And does her lonely siege so dire indeed Give frantic signal of Di's hour of need?

Draw near now to prowl in ghostly trespass, Far beyond the reach of standard press pass, And gaze upon Di's whirring, dream-filled head

That rests in silk and soft, embroidered bed. 'Neath three rampant feathers of the royal crest Mem'ries rise sharply on a curtained breast.

A strap has slipped from ivory shoulder,

But our spectral eyes must grow no bolder! Look only at her quiet, unconscious charm And how light falls on one Nautilized arm, Then touches with heav'nly refulgent glint Sam McKnight's daily hundred-guinea tint.

What other head has lain here—

Heaven knows!—

And been wont to kiss those manicured toes? Yet to woo in these so formal chambers Carries much more than average dangers.

For still in this modern age of reason Bedding Di is seen as highest treason,

And all hotheaded pursuers of royal sex Should now watch carefully their common necks.

I mention Will Carling and Ollie Hoare, Though each has denied the glamorous score; But James Hewitt, who to the press has sung, May yet—as they say—be really well hung.

We must leave talk of this priv'leged phallus To move crosstown to another palace,

Where Her Majesty, the resplendent Queen, Has the morning papers already seen

And is looking more than usually sour, Pacing pregnant with monarchic power. Just as she plans from court to erase her, Di appears like a Mother Teresa, Helping in some grim, compassionate task, Watching hearts repaired 'hind surgical mask.

"Really!" says the cold and majestic voice, "She has got to go—I've no other choice! While Rome bums and Windsor Castle singes, She slips 'tween sainthood and shopping binges!"

Returning apace to the Kensington scene,

We find Di wakening from world of dream. Like some startled antelope she rises, Innocent of the world's cruel surprises,

And makes for her mirrored boudoir table Fondly to regard the reflected fable.

She's still the picture of uncommon health; Nothing has yet come of Time's nightly stealth.

No lines are wrote by age since last she gazed—

No tucks, no creases, not a pimple raised!

Of this favored glass she should ask no more Than to show its mistress the hidden flaw Which lurks unseen beneath her spandex shorts,

Worn now in readiness for health-club sports.

She brings her mind to bear on worldly ills, Swallows water and supplement'ry pills, One of which will ease that lonely station: For Di has just joined the Prozac Nation. Her thoughts do speed in repetitive whirl As she clips to each ear a single pearl, And there she stays without ever turning To consider all those issues burning: What it's like to be a global icon, With each movement watched by prying Nikon; How to keep the favor of the masses, Yet cold distance of Jacqueline Onassis; How to handle Her Majesty's lawyers, Who come as from a painting of Goya's To speak of money, access, and title, Plus the welfare of her princes vital.

These thoughts circle with less crucial matters, Such as Armani and the royal hatters, Chanel, Ferragamo, and Calvin Klein, Not to mention Herrera's frocks sublime. Lord! how she wished she could leave these worries,

The pressure of endless legal flurries, And stay forever in far Pakistan With the fair Jemima and Imran Khan. But now she's calmed by a heavenly peace As merciful Prozac begins release.

Less peaceful is the stately breakfast room Where Queen Beth is served in menacing gloom

And steadily regards one soft-boiled egg As ill-tempered corgis dispute and beg.

Beth's determined that without more delay Di should be summoned on this very day And given those terms most artfully hatched

Which saw young Sarah so neatly dispatched. Now in frightening and resolute mood Her mind and desire begin to collude, And, seeing not an egg but Di instead, She wields a knife, crying, "Off with her head!"

A seething silence Queen Beth now maintains, As Philip and Charles dab at egg-yolk stains. Snapping corgis arrest their canine brawl And footmen glide out through the green baize door.

All feel the atmosphere so appalling— Even a bug on the window stops crawling. Then she summons (in her chilliest tone)

The presence, please, of her portable phone. She dials and gets through on a private line To fix a meeting at quarter past nine.

Then slow she turns to both heir and consort, To unburden the following onslaught:

"The girl has no trace of royal breeding— She won't cancel her tarot-card reading! And then—what a chronic irritation!— Her colon is booked for irrigation."

Avert your eyes from ensuing actions To reflect now on the warring factions,

Where the first side of two disputing halves Dresses for the contest in Hermes scarves.

These are known as the Gucci guerrillas, Or hunting pals of Charles and Camilla's, Who dwell on moors, streams, and Scottish heather,

Killing foxes, fish, and birds together. Their blood, of course, is a near-perfect blue— If not, they tend to add a name or two— And their code of honor is crystal-clear: Never submit to the therapist's ear, Never succumb to the media's guiles, And never stoop to indignant denials! In short they're greater than their sum of parts, Much heartier than any Queen of Hearts, As genuine as England's rare roast beef— And true as Camilla's upper front teeth.

And what on Diana's side do we find?

Those many gentlemen who've been so kind To dust off dear Don Quixote's armor And tilt at critics who mean to harm her. Swelling—nay, even tumescent—with pride, They have leapt to defend the virgin bride, Once girlish wife, then dutiful mother,

But never, it seems, Charles's cherished lover. They say what brought her gentle spirits down Were the fixed labors of the social round.

(To spend a Christmas with all regal bom Is like knitting socks while your teeth are drawn.)

Who could dare blame her for the meals she missed

While Charles disported on amorous trysts? And what of bulimia and fainting fits While husband dabbled with his painting kits And so they've set out their chivalrous case, Secretly in hope of her fond embrace, Pointing up gravely where principle lies, Yet prisoners all to her panda eyes.

It's now past the sacred hour of seven And Di is late for her muscled heaven.

Her pulse quickens for the Harbour Club dash But without the car that was last week's crash. Indeed, on these rapid journeys of Di's,

One's always quite thankful when she arrives, Which now she does on pairs of borrowed wheels,

Stirring journalists from their take-out meals. They swarm like a minor plague of locusts, Barbour jackets flapping, cameras focused, Chasing with questions their helpless quarry: "About the divorce, ma'am: are you sorry?" She makes for the door with sprinting vigor, Star-spangled jerkin hinting her figure. Cameras whir with their tiresome menace At subject more snapped than ever Venice, And with speed of light her form is set frozen, Locked behind shutters in frames not yet chosen.

She arrives at the gym warmed up nicely, Starts the stretch routine, designed precisely By Cardan Brown, personal trainer,

Who always in shape tried to maintain her. Now she strips down to plain Lycra bodice Which first drew Carling's eyes so immodest. O strapping arms! How he wished he'd kissed them

As Springsteen's music pumped through the system.

So the pressure is piled and pleasure soars As Di pulls mighty on waterless oars,

Then trips to weighted Nautilus machine, There to make perfect her muscles unseen. These clubs are, indeed, shrines to vanity, Prone to build on sinews, not sanity,

Where endomorphs are most sternly defied, And ecstatic rush dependably supplied.

But in storing up adrenal surplus Di has a more particular purpose And now considers while lifting a weight The meeting she has with the head of state.

After hours of toil and calorie loss Di speeds emboldened to visit The Boss.

A gap in her diary has been created Between appointments she had inflated,

And skipping tarot-card and colon dates She's waved on through the open palace gates. There a convertible prompts her surprise, Signaling a presence never apprised Of husband estranged, the heir to the throne, Which means that the Queen will not be alone.

Suddenly, Di and Charles are face-to-face, Clinching quickly in a fumbled embrace— Look, these aren't titans or battling giants, Just humans trapped in deadly alliance.

Now the room's grown thick with apology; Di distracts with talk of astrology, Then healing powers of a holy sister, Which helps him see why he never missed her, Nor, indeed, the appalling tedium Of wife in flow on psychic medium. Of course, he'd choose the Gothic Revival To take them up to the Queen's arrival.

Soon his mother comes with frigid manner, Gives formal greetings to dear Diana,

And starts to make a most compelling case For restoration of the public's faith.

The terms and conditions on the table Place restrictions on how Di is able To bring up the two princes postdivorce,

And where she will live—in England, of course!

These include an acutely worded stress On the future form of her royal address.

For Beth is resolved that Di's ovation Should now be hushed with a year's probation. On money, the Queen describes all she lacks, Making much of how she must now pay tax: There is not the cash in the royal coffer To make more than just this modest offer.

Di listens in a respectful silence, Her mind seething with inward violence, And before her now she sees a trade-off Of being dismissed without being paid off. But this is not simply a business rift, More like a sort of continental drift, A process—inch by inch and day by day— In which parties go their separate way.

All of it will doubtless soon be settled, And Di's pride, so honorably nettled, Her future role, so furiously fought, Will count for little in a dusty court.

But I digress: The meeting has ended; Ignoble dealing is now suspended. And this passage in Diana's story Closes with a brief, resistant glory.

For us there is still one matter in hand, More dire and ugly than the morning's span. While Di is cradled by Ms. Orbach's care And lulled to confide in the tall-back chair, Prints come to life in developing tray,

Dappled light reveals and shadows betray A defect which is surprisingly Di's—

The dimpled effect at the back of her thighs. Soon the picture will be auctioned and bought To wrap up with news and Saturday sport And there removing from the royal closet Bleak evidence of fatty deposit.

And contained in these films—I do not mock— Is the very modem Rape of the Lock.

Much worse than stealing severed loops and curls Has been effected by these tabloid churls,

Who used to advertise their scandal sheets By asking why the Princess never eats.

Now with a casual and oafish glee They hint at age and signs of eating spree.

So here is the point, in case it's missed you: Fat is more than a feminist issue.

And with this final thought I bid good-bye And a fond farewell to our ravished Di,

Hoping this verse has not her offended And rhyme and reason are aptly blended.