Th e fairytale wedding? Not when Britain and its royals are so divorced from reality
I’M NOT one of those who reverses into some twitchy reflex nationalism every time the royals get mentioned.
In fact, I admire Britain’s Queen Elizabeth.
In many ways, she’s the glue that keeps the UK together.
Ever since the collapse of the empire, Britain has been thrashing about like a drowning man.
From the Suez crisis, through to Iraq, Britain seems desperate to show the world that it still has global clout. But, of course, it hasn’t.
Pathetically, Brexit is about precisely that too.
But after Elizabeth, comes Charles, who according to a recent biography by Tom Bower is stuck in his very own personal ancient-regime time warp.
Which brings us to the next generation, where there is room for optimism, surely.
William and Harry appear to be two normalish blokes who get the 21st century in the same way that their father gets the 18th.
Except that the institution that defines them, and pays them handsomely, is moth-eaten and decrepit.
It is resolutely built on creaky principles that are from the wrong side of the Enlightenment.
It’s hard to comprehend, for instance, that American actress Meghan Markle had to change her religion and get baptised an Anglican as a constitutional prerequisite to marrying dashing Harry.
Her Protestant and Anglican DNA just wouldn’t do.
Then last week, Meghan’s final scenes in the drama ‘Suits’ were aired in the US. She won’t be acting again. No more of this vulgar showgirl nonsense for Meghan.
It’s her own choice, we are told.
But the soft whisperings of palace courtiers would have been very persuasive. So her new position in life, as a role model for independent young women, is to be an ornament linking the arm of her handsome prince.
The sort of modern woman who isn’t allowed to choose her own faith, let alone career.
The religious and gender anachronisms at the heart of this institution will catch up with it eventually.
But not before the world and its granny salivates over the latest fairytale wedding in a few weeks. Me? I’ll be washing my hair.
Force of nature
IT is human nature to moan about those steep climbs in life that make you pant and strain, while at the same time taking for granted all those freewheeling romps home on the return journey. So I’ve decided in the autumn of my life (it could be winter for all I know; they don’t give you a calendar) to appreciate the little things that any given day might cast your way without notice or warning.
Here’s one:
I am sitting in a friend’s house in Brandon, Co Kerry, watching the sun, sea and wind play games with each other.
One minute the sun is skipping over the sea, its reflection dancing off surf that is itself being whipped up by a skittish wind.
The next moment the sun is gone only to re-appear as it’s chased up a mountain and down the other side, the gale in close pursuit.
The mountain plays its own tricks with the light, swapping purples with greens and fawns depending on where the light has landed last.
It is just like some giant chameleon.
It’s breathtaking and I’m spellbound.
Nature puts on shows like this every day near where you are, if you know where to look or could be bothered.
You certainly should be.
I think I’ll get a season ticket.
They’ll never walk alone...
LIVERPOOL is one of my favourite cities. If the fact that it gave us The Beatles wasn’t enough, there’s the Scousers themselves, and streets laden with character and history.
Not to forget the football. Liverpool FC fans themselves are a dose with their extraordinary sense of entitlement.
But it’s a proper club, still holding to some of the best values in an age of excess and bling.
It proved that again with its classy response to the Sean Cox assault.
So here’s to Rome tomorrow and just deserts.