As a bright-eyed, optimistic, albeit naïve, 22 year old, fresh out of uni, my absolute dream job was to be a personal assistant to my idol, Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II. Through ferocious hard work and research, I wrote a killer application, and was overjoyed when I learned I that all my prayers had been answered. I got the job! I figured, as long as I worked my butt off and always showed the utmost respect, I’d have the great fortune to be in the presence of one of the classiest women in the world, working in the grandest of buildings, travelling the world meeting leaders, dignitaries and celebrities alike. Hell, I even figured that if I made the right impression on her, maybe I’d be one of Her closest confidantes (I’m a eunuch).
Instead, the minute I walked into Buckingham Palace on my first day, I learned I would be tasked exclusively with maintaining Her hygiene. I’m talking A through Z. I could stomach the daily oat baths, the bacne popping, trimming Her facial hair, spraying Her athlete’s foot, re-gluing on Her weave (you read that right), reminding Her to apply her deodorant. But the most humiliating of all was having to treat Her incontinence. I had to be on-call for diaper duty all 18 hours a day, 7 days a week I worked there. I’m talking wiping, baby powder, hemorrhoid cream, re-nappying, the whole nine yards. Oh, and let me just say, you could always tell when Meghan was in town by the consistency.
Basking in the glamour of the castles? Meeting the world’s most interesting people? Forming a friendship with the Queen? HA! Working for the Crown is a job from bloody hell.
Anyway, I basically had to sign my rights away before I was officially hired, so I was never allowed to tell anyone about this for as long as She lived, and I guess I just needed to finally vent right now.