The day that Hollywood hijacked the royals – and what a show!
IN HOLLYWOOD,’ said Groucho Marx, ‘brides keep the bouquets and throw away the groom.’ It was with that cheerily cynical view in mind that I tuned in to watch Prince Harry marry his Hollywood bride, Meghan Markle. I’ll be honest: as this chaotic royal wedding week unfolded, I began to fear Groucho was on to something.
If you were choosing a wife for Harry, you probably wouldn’t start with a 36-year-old divorcee whose family are so bonkers she could only risk inviting two of them to the wedding – and one of those was a no-show. All the will-he-or-won’t-he drama surrounding Meghan’s father Thomas could have come straight from an episode of her old US TV series Suits and will have merely confirmed to old-guard Palace sceptics that you pair a royal with a commoner at your peril.
My doubts were not alleviated when the guests began to arrive and it quickly resembled the red carpet at any Hollywood awards show. There were the Clooneys, Elton (in ominous rosetinted spectacles), Idris Elba, Tom Hardy, Carey Mulligan, James Corden, Oprah, Serena Williams, her former Suits co-stars, James Blunt and, of course, the Beckhams; David sporting a dazzling set of unsightly neck tattoos and Victoria wearing her habitually depressing scowl. Even Chloe Madeley got the invitation nod, making me fruitlessly double-check my own doormat for any last minute call-up.
(I had a reasonable claim to one: two years ago, I sent Meghan in an Uber from my local pub in Kensington to what turned out to be her first date with Harry. So I feel personally invested in this romance!)
The large crowd whooped ecstatically with each celebrity sighting and the stars waved with as much faux regalness as they could muster. But as I watched, my mind kept going back to one uneasy question: how can you justify having NONE of your family at your own marriage when you’re filling the church with famous people whom you’ve known for a fraction of the time? It smacked of ruthless and rather distasteful social climbing by a woman who was absolutely delightful when we met in my pub, but whose life has been marked by a worrying tendency to ditch people when they cease to be of use to her. (Her first husband thought they had a happy marriage until the day that Meghan sent his rings back in the post.)
My hackles were raised further when some of the actors strode to the front of the church quire, nestling opposite senior royals in a clear thespian statement of intent from Ms Markle that screamed: ‘We’re just as big stars as you stuffy lot in tiaras.’ They are not, of course. There are no bigger stars than the British royals, no other human beings who can command 5,000 media people to their weddings, or a billion television viewers. But there’s no doubt Hollywood hijacked this Royal Wedding, both in personnel and in tone, in a carefully co-ordinated operation by an actress putting on the performance of her life, to celebrate the greatest day of her life.
Meghan played it safe with her choice of elegant, stylish dress. For her choice of speaker, she played with fire. Literally. The Most Reverend Michael Curry let rip with surely the most memorable royal wedding speech ever heard. A sensational tour de force that cited slaves, quoted Dr Martin Luther King, and spoke repeatedly of the raging power of fire and love.
At first, I was startled. What the hell was happening here? Then, I was amused. Was he ever going to stop? The cameras cut to a giggling William, Charles and Camilla, to a stern-faced Queen and Philip, and then to a completely baffled Elton John. As Bishop Curry roused himself to ever-higher decibels, I found myself laughing out loud, as were all my family watching with me at home. Eventually, he finished and my phone rang. It was my 17-yearold son Bertie, who was at school.
‘Dad, did you see that?’ he exclaimed excitedly. ‘Yes, hilarious wasn’t it…’ ‘No! It was incredible!’ he replied. ‘Can you imagine what this must mean to a black American – seeing a black preacher make that kind of speech at a traditionally white British royal wedding? This was history happening right before our eyes. I love this wedding!’
His youthful passion and excitement shamed my middle-aged cynicism. Bertie was right.
Bishop Curry sent us all to church yesterday and reminded us that at its core this wedding was about race too: a biracial woman from America marrying into the world’s most famous white family.
When he finally sat down, the cameras panned to the bride’s mother Doria, sitting alone, diamond nose stud glinting, tears rolling from her eyes. It was very obvious just what the speech meant to her. He was followed by a black gospel choir singing a brilliant version of Stand By Me and 19year-old black musical genius Sheku Kanneh-Mason playing the cello so beautifully.
I would think it’s hard to overstate the significance of the ceremony, beamed live around the world, to black people everywhere. To borrow the words of Dr King, this was a day when little black girls could watch TV and genuinely share little white girls’ long-held dreams of one day marrying a prince. (And yes, before the tiresome radical feminists start raging, I know not all girls want to be princesses, and I know not all girls now identify as girls…)
In the end, though, this was like the greatest Oscars ceremony of all time: just one hour long, with tub-thumpingly brilliant off-piste speeches, musical performances to melt the heart, comedy moments to make you cry with laughter, and raw emotion to just make you cry. I loved seeing Prince Philip, 96, march into the church without a stick just weeks after a hip operation. (Perhaps he should send Thomas Markle a guidebook on how to man-up for important family events?) I loved seeing Prince Charles chivalrously take Meghan’s arm halfway down the aisle and focus so intently on his brief but vital job.
And I loved the bridesmaids and pageboys all desperately trying not to behave too badly and succeeding remarkably well. I also loved the fact that, in direct contrast to most awards ceremonies, the biggest winners were two superstars who
‘The performance of her life on her greatest ever day’
the public clearly adore. Meghan looked radiantly beautiful, supremely confident, and born to play the role of a princess, even if in fact she’s going to be the duchess of Sussex, the county where I grew up.
Harry looked madly in love, endearingly nervous (His ‘I’m ******** it!’ confession to his bride at the altar spoke for every man at every wedding ever). We all want this charming, sensitive young man to be happy. Not least because we all remember him trudging so sadly behind the coffin of his mother, Diana. Of course, we have no idea if this marriage will last. The recent matrimonial record of royal couples is inarguably dreadful. So, we’ll just have to sit back and hope for the best. Since I’m a divorcee, I prefer not to give advice to newlyweds. But I can proffer one piece of uncontestable wisdom that is very easy to adopt. Meghan apparently insisted on lots of geraniums at her wedding. By coincidence, my family motto is based on something a flower seller once said to my grandmother: ‘Life ain’t much, but it’s all ya got, so stick a geranium in yer ’at and be ’appy.’