Pippa Middleton's star power
Pippa Middleton at London Fashion Week Spring/Summer 2012 at the British Museum on September 19, 2011. Photo: Tim Whitby
Oh, Pippa. You showed such promise when you burst onto the socialite scene with your chav tan, Vicki Pollard eyeliner and swishing butt. You were just a middle-class girl till your family made millions pasting Justin Bieber's face onto children's party hats, your sister married a prince, and you became an idol to social climbers the world over.
At first you looked set to inject those stuffy royals with a touch of racy glamour. But instead, Pippa, it's they who have colonised you. Take the photo you posted recently, of you and your inbred upper-class pals, long legs tucked into designer gumboots, in open mockery of the dozens of bloodied corpses you'd lined up, all in the name of good clean privileged fun. Truth be told, there's something kind of grotesque about a group of privileged do-nothings laughing it up over recreational animal cruelty. Did you learn nothing from the backlash against American TV presenter Melissa Bachman, who shot, killed and posed with a lion?
Pippa, the upper-class dimwit is not a good direction for you. Remember, true class doesn't announce itself. If you have to prove your privileged status by shooting defenceless animals for fun and laughter… well, it's a little like the new groom who waves bloodied sheets in public to display his virility. If you have to brag about it (like Robin Thicke and his "big appendage") – it's probably not true.
Pippa Middleton (third from left) and friends with their haul of game birds at the Drum Estate in Gilmerton, near Edinburgh. Photo: Instagram
The trouble with the photo is that it invites an unwelcome comparison. People might start asking questions like "who has done more for modern Britain – Pippa or her kill?" Did you know that birds carry seeds in their poo? They sprinkle these seeds across the countryside, providing pretty flowers for all. I know your butt's got its own webpage, but does its refuse bring daisies to meadows? My point is, you don't want us asking those questions.
Now your humble "selfie with kill" has gone and ticked off an establishment figure of a different kind. Ex-Smiths frontman Morrissey had a go at you on his blog, and while he may be a crazy socialist animal lover, with his millions of fans it would be bad form to ignore him. You don't want those fans turning on you, Marie Antoinette style.
He wasn't very nice. “Thickwit Pippa Middleton laughing as she stood over 50 birds shot dead by her friends and herself after a 'busy day's shooting',” he wrote. “Middleton is a 'socialite', which tells us that she is privileged and can more-or-less kill whatever she likes. The sick face of modern Britain, Pippa Middleton will kill deer, boar, birds - any animal struggling to live, or that gets in her socialite way. This association [with Kate] allows Pippa's kill, kill, kill mentality to be smilingly endorsed by the British print media, to which only the mentally deficient could join in with the laughter.”
You hear that, Pippa? The mentally deficient. And he's wrong there – some of my best friends are mentally deficient, and not even they find the site of you cacking yourself over your fresh kill hilarious.
Morrissey makes a good point though, that you may want to check out whose social ladder you're climbing: "the Queen continues to endorse the trapping of the Canadian brown bear so that her senior servile guardsmen might look their prettiest. The babies of the trapped and murdered adult bears are left to die slowly - unable to survive without their mothers." Ouch!
It gets worse – he lays into your sister, too. “We recall William and Kate in Canada laughing hysterically as a bull, whose abdomen has been cinched with a bucking strap, is jumping in agony before the stiffly-apart-together lovely 'royal' couple - who are both clapping excitedly. What is so terribly funny about torture?”
He's got you there, Pippa. The trouble is that animal cruelty is just not as aspirational as it used to be. It's become vulgar, a little crass. Such things are now the domain of the lower classes, with their dog fighting and handbag Chihuahuas (as common as the counterfeit Gucci bags that carry them).
Sniff the wind, Pippa, time to change direction. Now I know you want to be taken seriously, and good for you. And OK, your first book Celebrate was branded as simple (it included tips like "cakes should be stored in air-tight containers so as not to get moldy"), but who cares? It's a start.
You're an inspiration to millions of young girls, and you've got a platform: you do awesome things like look pretty in the front row at Wimbledon, and you're never seen out with ugly men, just strong-jawed rich ones. Smashing effort, Pippa. Jolly good start!
To avoid being seen as a vacuous social climber you need an image change. Why not "humanitarian"? Don't freak out, you won't have to work or anything. A humanitarian is just a socialite who gets invited to UN consciousness-raising red carpet events, so it's "socialite" but less tacky.
Start by kissing more lepers and shooting fewer sentient beings. And you'll need to mix it with some typhoon victims. Front a charity; one where you have to "pitch in" for the photo ops, not just smash champagne bottles on yachts – that's for geriatric socialites, like the Queen. Maybe a soup kitchen? They'd certainly appreciate your book's catering advice (turkeys "because of their size… are perfect for feeding larger gatherings").
You've already shown that you know how to work your advantages, Pippa – you joked that your next book should be called "bottoms up"! So just add the humanitarian angle and you're all set. You don't have to frump up and lose your "royal hotness" tag – maximise it and pose for PETA with a few strategically placed lettuce leaves over your peachy bottom! Don't worry about upsetting the in-laws; let's face it, if Harry's allowed to dressed as a Nazi, you can spruik for some animal liberationists.
If you want a shelf life longer than a thong string, Pippa, you need to choose your direction. Grinning with your friends like a bunch of sadistic upper-class twats over rows of dead animals is for vacuous socialites. But humanitarians? They twerk for charity with lettuce on their butts.