Queen Margrethe, up front and centre, in irredescent, bright pink. Chiffon leaves at the hem of the dress ressemble the flames of fire of Hawaiian fire and volcano goddess Pele or the Roman fire goddess Gaia Caecilia. Fuck with me and deal with hot lava, baby.
Fred looks like a geriatric beagle, floppy skin pasty and diminished, eyes appearing barely recovered from a whisky and blondes bender. It doesn't help that his grey hair has been glossed over with black shoe polish! Nor does the furrow in his forehead spell calm acceptance of his destiny. Frex is firmly positioned behind the queen, NOT on her right, the symbolic placement of the next-in-line. Overwhelmed by his silly epaulets and too long pants legs, will Freddums be set free in favour of Joachim?
Christian looks like a confused mouth-breather and very Donaldson-like in his Teutonic hunting jacket. His foot is forward since he is running away (being pushed away?) from his destiny.
"Eat it, Dais! He loves me best, not you", says Mary.
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