This weekend King Charles III will be crowned and start taking the British monarchy to the place ordained by fate: that discreet, transnational health spa where all the other European royals are already huddled, spending their days wondering what it must be like to have a chin while they quietly try to launder their loot through foundations dedicated to curing jet ski injuries. 

To be clear, I don’t hate the British monarchy, mainly because I don’t live in the UK and am therefore not one of the cash-strapped taxpayers being told to pay £100m for the costume party of a man whose family is worth about £25bn. ..

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