MY PRINCESS DELULU

Or: How I think I saw Kate in Kinmel Bay Asda

People often like to say that Wales is God’s Country, because of its gorgeous landscapes and vibrant culture. But the people who say this have almost certainly never been to Rhyl. God may have blessed this seaside town with the Sun Centre and Lyon’s Family Caravan Park, but apart from that, I don’t think He’s taken an interest since about 1965.

Rhyl’s glamour is now so faded that it is entirely imperceptible. But I still quite like the place. I’ve been staying here at my sister’s house in between housesits, and it’s fine. There’s a nice beach. I think the locals are lovely.

It turns out that I only think this because I am completely deluded.

My sister accuses me of skipping around town like a superannuated Disney princess, bestowing unwanted kind smiles and bubbly charm upon the drug-addled and derelict residents who shuffle at zombie pace up and down the aisles of Poundland and across the railway bridge, which is adorned with artless and badly spelled graffiti inviting you to kill yourself.

But everyone’s so friendly! I protest.

That’s your princess delulu talking, my sister says.

On her street alone, there’s a registered sex offender, a carpet shop that’s allegedly a front for a town-wide drug cartel, and a number of adolescent boys with curly perms.

Well, everyone’s nice to me, I insist.

Alright Elsa, calm down, my sister says.

This is incredibly unfair of her. As if I’d be an Elsa! She could have at least said Snow White – although I believe that particular princess role has already been unofficially claimed by Dave the Rave, who lives a few doors down. Dave, as you might surmise, is a casualty of the Rave. When my sister moved into the street, the two of them had a neighbourly chat, and she asked his name. “Erm, hang on… yep, it’s Dave,” he said, following a quick consultation with the knuckles of his left hand, upon which the letters D A V E are tattooed.

Dave sadly got into trouble with the police a while back for illegal possession of a magpie. The magpie liked to pace up and down in the window of Dave’s flat, looking beady-eyed and clever, and only a tiny bit like a murderous creature imprisoned against its will. I like to imagine that it helped Dave hang his undies out and do his dishes, just like Snow White’s little woodland friends did for her.

I don’t actually want to be a princess, but royal aspirations do run in my family, what with my dad being a Queen. Our family lore also states that one of my brothers once expressed a desire to be a princess when he grew up. When it was explained to him that this was impossible, on account of his not being a girl, he responded with great pluck and cheer, saying, “Well then, I’ll marry a prince!” (This was the seventies, so he wasn’t rushed to a clinic to have his princess-gender affirmed. But on the plus side, he got to hold on to his crown jewels.)

I don’t know if my brother had a specific princess in mind, or whether it was more that he wanted one of those tall pointy hats with a veil flowing out the top. That was the only princess attribute I really cared about, back in the day. In those days, if I’d been forced to choose a princess, it would likely have been Rapunzel, aka Becky with the good hair, mainly because she got to sit in a tower and read books all day. Which, come to think of it, is pretty much how I spent my entire childhood. Minus the tower, of course.

My real first choice princess would have been Alice, but she doesn’t count because, according to Disney lore, she’s only an “almost princess.” Yeah, well, as I recall she played the shit out of that spooky chess game and ended up a Queen - a way more impressive feat than simply sitting in a tower, growing her hair. Which, come to think of it, is pretty much how I spend all my free time these days. Minus the tower.

Dave the Rave would probably make a good Alice. Brings a whole new meaning to ‘off with his head!’ And I bet he’d play a great game of flamingo croquet. Except it would have to be magpie croquet. And he’d probably forget his magpie. And his hedgehog croquet ball. And his head.

These days, specifically this week, if I had to choose to be a princess, I would probably choose to be Kate Middleton. Mainly because that way I’d know where I was and what the hell I was playing at. I mean, maybe I’m walking really really fast away from a farmer’s market with a carrier bag full of expensive offal, like the papers claim I am. But I doubt it. I’m pretty sure that I’m actually involved in something bizarre and nefarious, probably involving aliens or the illuminati.

If Kate’s on the lam from the royal household, having caught William unzipping his human suit and brandishing his extraterrestrial tentacle of doom, then Rhyl would be absolutely the last place anyone would come looking for her. For one thing, there’s no bougie farmer’s market here. The closest Rhyl has to an outdoor food event is when someone drops a Morrison’s meal deal ham sandwich in the high street and is immediately and viciously set upon by a gang of rabid seagulls.

Kate’s wealth and privilege are clearly no protection from the snooping eyes of the world’s press. But in Rhyl, there’s natural privacy afforded by the fact that no one gives a flying fuck what happens here. What paparazzo would have the gumption to rent a room in one of Rhyl’s many bed and breakfast establishments on the off chance that HRH is going to come strolling down the promenade, eating a hot doughnut and swinging her bucket and spade? Even the probing fingers of the illuminati would surely stop at slotting coins into an armed bandit in Harker’s Amusement Arcade, on the grounds that no true princess would risk a dose of impetigo from touching a dirty tuppence.

So what I’m saying is, if the palace doesn’t quickly roll out a glitchy android princess, while the real one is being secretly interred in a lead coffin at the bottom of the Thames, then the next logical place to look for our beautiful future queen is racing around the abandoned seaquarium with some smackheads who’ve stolen a mobility scooter.

And if some shocking royal revelation has caused Kate to have a seizure and forget who she is, I know a place where she can get her knuckles tattooed.

A common sight in Rhyl’s summer months