Much misunderstood, Diana. Growing up, her world was not one of Elton John, Rod Stewart, Duran Duran et al. Her musical scene was the grimier, sticky-floored world of pub rock. Doctor Feelgood were her pre-Charles favourites.
Fag in one hand, pint of snakebite in the other, the smell of sweat, beer and piss, Wilko Johnson coming at her like a 4 year old on amphetamines, his wild movement constrained by a six foot length of elastic.
The Half Moon, Putney would have been a fitting venue for a fitting pub rock tribute to the young life-loving Spencer girl.
It was corporate, soulless Wembley Stadium and James Morrison for the anaethetised wife and mother, the blandly compassionate regal superwoman.
If only they'd gone with her heart. Her heart was in dirty, sweaty rock and roll played by hard working, hard drinking Essex bits of rough.
Where were the Kursaal Flyers yesterday?
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