Today I will definitely not be one of the zillions of people worldwide sitting glued to a screen to watch the royal wedding.
It’s not that I have anything against Prince Harry. On the contrary. I’ve always thought he and Prince William seemed like decent young blokes – refreshingly normal, free from the stiffness and strangulated vowels that make some of their relatives painful to hear and behold, and so confident, relaxed and media-savvy that they’re the only royals I’ve ever really enjoyed watching on TV (their double act is particularly amusing).
I don’t have anything against Meghan Markle, either. On the contrary. She seems like a decent young woman, she’s used to being in the public eye, and she’ll doubtless make the most of her position to do good for the humanitarian causes she and her new husband care about. Plus I’m glad that their marriage is a nice smack in the eye for the ‘ain’t no black in the Union Jack’ brigade – and that now there IS some black in the Royal Standard. Ha ha hurrah.
Nor do I have anything against the Queen or royal family as a whole – though I do find the institution of monarchy a bizarre anachronism, a medieval throwback as outdated as the Doctrine of Signatures and completely superfluous to the running of a country. It might be part of our history and heritage – but so were public executions, bear-baiting, ducking scolds and committing unmarried mothers to Bedlam. The idea of being ‘subject’ to the Crown is repugnant to me; like Hawkeye in ‘Last of the Mohicans,’ I don’t consider myself subject to much at all (apart from the law). Our monarchy has caused enormous personal unhappiness to many of its members including Princess Margaret, (prevented from marrying the divorcé she loved), Diana, Princess of Wales, (driven into despair, eating disorders and suicidal impulses), and Prince Harry, (an able, well-liked and respected officer, forced to give up a promising career in active service because his royalty made him too great a target for terrorists and thereby too great a risk to his men) – and Prince William obviously doesn’t relish the prospect of becoming king one day, although no doubt duty will constrain him to it. So no, I don’t like the monarchy. I’m sure Britain would rub along just fine without it, and that tourists would still come to gaze upon our palaces and castles and spend their precious dollars and yen on tacky souvenirs and picture postcards. Still, we do need a Head of State, and the perils of electing one are horribly plain in today’s world; so since (alas) we can’t have Justin Trudeau, I guess I prefer a member of the House of Windsor than risk having Britain’s whimsical, unpredictable electorate inflict a self-seeking muppet like Nigel Farage, some moronic reality-TV ‘celebrity’ or a barely-articulate sports ‘personality’ on the nation.
But what I really, REALLY hate is the obnoxious cult of royal-worship whipped up by our cynical, sycophantic mass-media. I’ve always loathed having things rammed down my throat (that’s why I’ve never to this day been able to watch the movie ‘E.T.’) – there’s nothing more likely to infuriate and turn me off than endless advertising and saturation coverage. I don’t feel like celebrating something which is costing so much money at a time of so much more pressing national need. I’m not interested in the nuptials of people I don’t know and never will, much less in watching hours of incredibly boring preamble, the footage of gathering crowds and tedious vox pop interviews. I don’t give a flying eff about sad gits who travel hundreds of miles to camp for days on the pavements whence Windsor’s homeless were recently evicted in the hope of glimpsing, for a few seconds, someone famous as they drive past. And I can only pity poor Thomas Markle, a quiet, private individual now linked by his daughter’s marriage to one of the most famous and most scrutinised families in the world, and sucked into the ghastly media circus which will surround her, prying, praising and decrying, for the rest of her life.
Bleah. It makes me puke. I don’t know which I despise more, the media or the pathetic nosy obsessives who like to think of themselves as royalists, but whose appetites for the ever-more candid (ie intrusive) exposé fuel the paparazzi – the people collectively responsible for killing the woman who should have become Meghan’s mother-in-law today, and for plunging Britain into its morbid, breast-beating guilt-trip back in 1997. I refuse to be a part of it – so while the ‘fans’ lap up every last drop of the media drool, I’m off to do something more constructive with my day.