The regal activity in HBO's new historical smash is far removed from that of our own royals. They should take some pointers ?
At some juncture last week, I watched Daybreak's Adrian Chiles standing grimly beside a Lego Westminster Abbey, pointing at Lego Prince William, Lego Kate and 16,000 beige bricks. "Ooh, now, this really is spectacular," Chiles remarked to the chump who'd built it, hopefully as his wife packed a case and ran off with the milkman. "It's so lifelike!" said Chiles. "No, it's not spectacular, Adrian," I said. "The whole congregation is just Lego firemen and folk who work on the Lego Space Station. It is shit. Make this madness stop." Thus, in the midst of Royal Wedding idiocy, HBO's regally brilliant Game Of Thrones (Mon, 9pm, Sky Atlantic) has been a real tonic. Game Of Thrones is Narnia populated by super-hard bastards. It's The Sopranos with more sword disembowellings and sibling incest. While we Brits are represented by affable oaf HRH Prince Andrew farting about in business class on Trade Ambassador jaunts, House of Stark has Sean Bean (Lord Eddard Stark) festooned in 10 raggedy layers of leather and fox fur thundering about on a black charger, growling, "Winter is coming," then lopping off some poor serf's head with a big sword. Our own Royals, for their part, are very slim on both nifty catchphrases and unashamed acts of killing and are all the blander for it.
I'm certain, were we ever to witness Prince Edward and Countess Sophie of Wessex chucking people to a splattery death from a high tower in a bid to take kingship off Charles, we'd be less inclined to snigger at Eddy's 1987 It's A Royal Knockout shambles. If the Windsors cracked less champagne off the sides of ships and rode around less often in Range Rovers clutching corgi dogs and instead stayed in a castle surrounded by a pack of snarling killer direwolves saying, "Come and have a go, France, if you reckon yourselves," I'd be the fullest throated monarchist of all. Plus, in the words of another spectacular TV clan leader (Frank Gallagher from Shameless), those Game Of Thrones medieval dudes, "they know how to throw a party." House of Stark banquets are riotous affairs staffed by enormo-breasted wenches heaving jugs of wine and trays of chargrilled meats. Knights, kingsmen and tipsy princesses howl, flirt and begin food fights. I'm certain our very own Prince Philip would very much enjoy tedious state visits being livened up by waitresses who look like Jodie Prenger spilling haphazardly out of corsets, motorboating him by the salmon terrine ? although I'm sure royal protocol frowns upon this.
Episode three looks at the King's son, Jon Snow, in his new role patrolling The Wall, a vast, 300 mile, 700 feet tall ancient barrier of ice that fortifies the northern border of the seven kingdoms. Snow is Lord Stark's illegitimate son, which everyone gets around tactfully by calling him "The Bastard". "We're having a party and you're not invited, Bastard," they shout, which goes some way to explain why he took a job patrolling miles of what looks like the Great Barrier Reef crossed with a malfunctioning freezer cabinet and surrounded by killer zombies. We see Lord Stark begin to accept how youngest daughter "tomboy" Arya will never be the "lady" he dreams of. We see Daenerys, sold to barbarian husband Khal Drogo, starting to enjoy being sexually pummelled by her angry grunting giant husband more, now she's had sex lessons off that girl who used to be in Hollyoaks. Kill, kill, sex, kill, large plate of pig, more sex. HBO got medieval on all our asses.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/tv-and-radio/2011/apr/30/tvod-game-of-thrones-hbo
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