“I would never marry a prince”. This is what I said to myself as soon I arrived in London many years ago while reading an English newspaper full of the latest gossips about the royals. I would never wish to see myself on papers, I thought, and read articles digging in the alleged secrets of my present, past or even making assumptions on my future. Everybody licensed to judge the way I speak, look, clothes and stuff like that. Just hell. English press is truly merciless. If they had called Prince Albert a sausage, I can just guess how Princess Tink would have been called, once discovered that her origins were from the deep South of Italy, for example. I could see the titles after the first errors: mafia pollutes Buckingham Palace, royal pizza connection. No, thanks, I would have never married a prince, let alone an English prince.
But If I actually had wished to marry a prince and had been lucky enough to bump into one I loved, in the remote case I didn’t know much about this Royal Highness, curiosity would have consumed me, hence, I would have promptly googled his name and find out what kind of prince I had hooked .Then, if I had discovered that we were not talking about the prince of Zamunda Akeem Joffer, but the descendant of the oldest and most prestigious monarchy in Europe indeed, after having thanked my exceedingly good star, I would have endeavoured myself to know a bit more about him and his family, particularly if I had resolved upon marrying him. I would have wanted to know every detail and learn what was best to do or learn about the code of behaviour at court. Then, I am sure, I would have downloaded on You Tube “how to curtsy” part .1,2,3,4 before being introduced to the Her Majesty the Queen. I would have wanted to be impeccable, for sure. I would have wished to be informed to fit the best I could. Anybody would have behaved so, but Meghan Markle, who did marry a prince.
What I watched a few days ago was an lengthy interview on the sorrows of a grown up woman half Alice in Wonderland, half Little Mermaid telling the sad story of her connecting with the Royal family. The entire construction of the interview meant at winking at the story of Diana, but it didn’t work, as it looked like more B movie on the topic of depression. There were few facts told, but, actually, the responsible of those acts was let to the viewer’s imagination, and you know, imagination flows. The shocking events were mostly these: Megan was soon embittered as nobody had thought about organizing an English anthem class for her, then she proceeded telling about a squabble about the dresses of her bridesmaids, thus revealing that it was her sister-in-law Kate, who made her cry and not the other way round, as odious English press assumed. How shocking. I was wondering if that was before or after Prince Charles walked her down the aisle.
Then there was this continuous mantra, about the security they have been deprived of and the cruelty of seeing her child with no title even if titles do not matter. Actually, the host of the show, the astute Oprah Winfrey, was moving the threads of her puppet to take her to the core of the interview which was dearest to her cause, that is Meghan’s accusation of the royals of racism. That was the shell cast in the middle of a tedious interview made of trivialities mostly. Racism!!! I guess it must have been a great disappointment for those gullible Bridgerton fans, who were made believe by Shonda Rhymes only two months ago, that there was black aristocracy in Regency times.
All that talking about dark thoughts, bridesmaids, anthems was nothing but the tasteless “appetizer” of the more juicy “main course”, which was the accusation the Royal family of being racist. And you know what annoyed me the most? Harry, the real or better, the royal puppet of the situation, because he allowed all this. He allowed his own overexposed family to be even more exposed in this way. While she spoke, he, the Prince, was at first left apart, to observe her wife’s show. It was her limelight. Couldn’t he see the marginality of his role and person? While I was watching this pitiful show, one Italian proverb, kept rolling in my mind: “mogli e buoi dei paesi tuoi” *. Ah, the wisdom of the oldies!
(Difficult to find a real equivalent in English, which sounds: ”Wives and oxen from your own country” . This should mean that it is better to select your partner from people who belong to your country and have a similar background, in order to avoid unpleasant surprises.)