The headlines announcing the return to Britain of a balding, redheaded, middle-aged man and his wife, a 45-year-old mixed-race ex–soap actress—Prince Harry and Meghan Markle—must have been as large as those announcing the ghastliest attack ever inflicted on humans, the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. What I’d like to know is: What is wrong with the British media? Has everyone involved taken too much LSD, magic mushrooms, or what have you? How can journalists justify wasting the trees, not to mention their own time, writing in the papers about a publicity-hungry couple of less-than-average intelligence and above-average greed? The whole of British media has turned into a giant Oprah monster, regurgitating imbecilic platitudes about royalty and the couple’s betrayal of that greedy institution.
Here’s an ex-editor of mine—who once told an owner who wanted me fired that if Taki went so did he, and who later also served as Britain’s prime minister—Boris Johnson, on the royals:
When the moment finally comes for the royal gaze to light upon that Left-wing republican, when they are bathed in the dazzle of the royal dentition, you will notice a sudden change in their demeanour. They hold their breath. They stiffen their spines. They perform the bow or curtsy that they have practised all morning. And after they have held a brief, stammering but wholly cordial conversation with that member of the royal tribe they will remember it for the rest of their lives.
See what I mean about ingesting something that rattles your brains? Boris is, as far as I know—and I used to know him quite well—an intelligent human being whose classical education at Eton and Oxford has helped him put down embarrassing questions about his private life with answers in Latin and Ancient Greek. But when he writes about the royal gaze lighting upon someone, I see that his brains have been muddled by booze or something stronger.
Poor Boris. He sounds like so many of those old ladies who patiently wait outside a church or a royal palace in order to catch a glimpse of a Brit royal on his or her way to some fundraiser. (And that the Brit royals do non-stop, although they rarely personally contribute.)
The irony of all those so-called “royal correspondents” in the British media is that almost none of them actually know the royals, but they all write about them daily as if they lived side by side. (Incidentally, a “royal insider,” an often-quoted source by the hacks, does not exist, but is an invention of the so-called royal writers.) There is money to be made by writing about this rather homely bunch that obsesses the British public. Tina Brown, a very old acquaintance of mine, has made a fortune writing books about Princess Diana, a woman whom I believe she met only once, at a lunch in New York with six other British ladies.
This is where I come in with a story I think you have already read (written, of course, by me).
It was at a grand London ball given by a friend that Princess Diana sent someone to fetch me to her table. I staggered there and was asked by her to sit down. I made an attempt, but missed the chair and ended up under the table. I was quite drunk. She roared with laughter, leaned down under the tablecloth, and asked me whether I thought she was crazy. “All I know is that I’m crazy about you,” I answered—more laughter.
Diana came to my house a couple of times or so and had me at her palace twice, and I wrote about her twice: once after her untimely death, and 10 years later asking the media to lay off her. Now, because of the return of her younger son, she’s back in the news.
The return of the prodigal duo, needless to say, is as famous as that of the great Douglas MacArthur to the Philippines. Harry and the wife want to get their snouts back into the royal trough while grandpa is still kicking. The older brother is not pleased; it’s Cain and Abel all over again.
This, according to the tabloids as well as the serious British press, is drama to match any soap opera—which is what the royal family actually is. The redheaded son actually said it on American TV: “I fled my home country with my wife and son fearing for our lives.” This was in 2023. Although I prefer to ignore these idiotic mutterings, if I were directing the soap opera, I’d call it The Duke-man Always Rings Twice.
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The latest brouhaha is about money—what else? Harry wants the state to pay for his protection—around 5 million greenbacks per annum—but a recent poll found that only 2 percent of those asked agreed with the redhead’s scheme. The couple did not help their case by flying to London from LA in a giant bombardier private jet, which probably cost well over $100,000. Duh!
Where the royals are concerned, the Uriah Heep–like servility of the British press matches American attitudes toward dumb celebrities. Our only consolation is that we don’t have to pay for our spoiled dummies, whereas the British public does.
