And they lived happily ever after

The French had the right idea and had their heads off, and the Americans booted out the Brits and their king with the War of Independence and thus it is that the House of Windsor, the British royal family, bumbles along to this day. They are all in varying degrees barking mad and live lives of unimaginable privilege in sealed bubbles unconnected to plebeian reality and come out dusted down and polished for a regular run around the public tracks. It’s what we pay them for after all.

You may notice a certain deficit on my part here; I am no fan of the royal family or royalty in general and you may also have noticed that there is a royal wedding in the offing, this coming Saturday to be precise, and parts of the media are frothing at the mouth at the prospect.

The male half of the deal is True Brit (though the familial line is actually Germanic) and closer to the world the rest of us inhabit than most of his ilk, the female half is American, of mixed race, and comes with luggage. Before she met ‘Arry she was a jobbing actor earning a decent living and a middle rank celeb. Bottom end of the “A” list, top end of the “B”. She is divorced as are her parents. Black Mum, white Dad and assorted family complications common enough and largely unremarkable these days.

The media were on to it like hounds on a cornered fox. Those familiar with fox hunting will know that the end of the hunt is when the hounds tear the fox to pieces, and that is precisely what the media is doing as these very words are written. The dogs of the Fourth Estate sniffed blood by the bucketful and knew that there could be a tasty death at the end of the game.

First up for ritual slaughter is the father of the bride, a hitherto obscure man who liked his privacy and seems to have led a hard-working and blameless life. He was retired and happy to toddle along. Or he was until Daughter Numero Uno pulled ‘Arry and things went downhill from there. Few phrases are more accurate than “hounded by the press”. They rented the house next door to his the better to make his life miserable, and by extension rain on his daughter’s parade. “Rain” in this context being a polite form as common decency does not permit me writing what it is they are actually doing.

And it was at this point, with Mr Markle possibly hospitalised and maybe unable to walk his daughter down the aisle, that even this grumpy curmudgeon of a republican eased up a bit. ‘Arry’s mum had been quite literally hounded to an early death. The future Mrs Windsor or whatever she will be ennobled as post-vows, is already lined up and so is her mum, black divorced social worker who must have something worth turning into headline news.

The “n” word hovers in the background of racist Britain, and the Daily Mail curls itself into lexical knots trying not to sound like it is actually not that keen on having a person of colour getting snuggled come bedtime drinks by this ginger bloke wiv a bit of form when it comes to knocking off Taliban from ‘is ‘elicopter. ‘Oo ‘appens ter be white. Y’know…proper white.

So it is that at least temporarily there is a truce called in Schloss Corkenheim and royal hostilities are suspended. There is nothing I can do to prevent the likely death of poor Mr Markle, a man I have a sympathy for that increases by the minute, and his daughter will have the protection of a squad of minders who are pretty good at…minding. There will be pomp and pageantry and lots of silly hats and embarrassingly awful vox-pops conducted in its own inimitable way by the BBC whose presenters are all issued with special replacement underwear in the likely event of them wetting themselves with the squealing excitement of it all — and yes, I hope it all goes swimmingly. And happily ever after? Well maybe.

Published in The Express Tribune, May 17^th, 2018.

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