The English secret: Revealed!

At last, someone — the someone in question being MSNBC columnist Michael Ventre — has the fortitude to say in print what I have long thought, but was too genteel to mention aloud:

Many Englishwomen — not all, by any stretch of the imagination, but a sizable majority thereof — resemble the Pepperpots from Monty Python's Flying Circus. Camilla Parker-Bowles is living proof.

Oh, I can hear you already. How dare you? you cry. And in truth, this is exactly the sort of grotesque generalization I customarily abhor. But you know what? It's my blog, and I'll generalize if I want to.

Because when you're right, you're right.

Envision with your mind's eye the British royal family, theoretically the bluest of the English bloodline. Queen Elizabeth? Not exactly a babe, even in her salad days. Princess Margaret? Ditto. Princess Anne? Egad.

See what I mean?

Someone will surely point to the dearly departed Princess Diana as an exception to the rule. Not to speak ill of the deceased, but sorry, I'm not seeing it. Diana was a tall, gawky, ungainly-looking person whom I'm convinced was thought of as a beautiful woman largely by comparison within an aesthetically impoverished vicinity; surrounded by the rest of British royalty, she was practically Catherine Zeta-Jones. (Welsh. Doesn't count.) But viewed in isolation? Eh, not so much. Besides, Diana married into the clan, though she was distantly related by blood as well. She still suffered from that wan, vaguely sickly look that eventually transmogrifies into Pepperpot. Or Camilla. Not that there's a difference.

I always preferred the Duchess of York to Diana anyway. Diana always seemed a little stiff to me, no morbid pun intended. Fergie always seemed like she'd be a lot more fun.

Don't think for a moment that I'm letting the male of the English species off the hook by any means. It's just that...well...I'm singularly unqualified to judge male attractiveness, not being of a persuasion that I can make that call. Those of you so inclined may correct me on this, and I'm certain you will. But let's put it this way: If I wandered into the stable when Prince Charles was outfitting his mount for a polo match, I'd have a tough go telling you which was which.

(An aside: I think pretty much all men look dorky, to speak the honest truth. Myself included. The good Lord built us for utility, not cosmetic appeal. Frankly, I can't understand what my female or gay male friends see in us. We're bulky, we don't smell nice, and we tend to grow hair in inconvenient locations. But I digress.)

For the sad state of English pulchritude, I blame the cuisine. The English eat the absolute worst garbage on the planet — and I've tried lutefisk, so I can make that statement. When I was in fourth grade, two of my best friends were brothers whose mother was English (and who, now that I think back, strongly resembled Camilla Parker-Bowles), and I dreaded being asked to stay over for dinner at their house. Let's face facts: Any people that subsist on boiled beef, kidney pie, and mashed peas are setting themselves up for long-range chromosomal damage. I remain firmly convinced that the sole reason the British empire once spanned the globe is that they were in desperate search of some folks who could actually cook, and wherever they found such folks, they subjugated them and stole all their good recipes.

Doubtless a torrent of contradictory e-mail will flood my inbox. Have at it. I can only report what I see. And yes, I'm prepared for the dozens of exceptions — gorgeous Englishwomen — you'll name. Exceptions only validate the rule. (Just remember to attach scans of those gorgeous Englishwomen, for further review.)

Appearances aside, though, I'll wager krugerrands against Krispy Kremes on this point: I suspect Camilla is more fun than Diana was, too. Problem is, I can't imagine Charles being anyone's idea of a good time. But that's English taste for you. Maybe he's the human equivalent of bubble and squeak.