Harry and Meghan epitomise a lost generation
Coddled and confused, the Sussexes obsess over their identity and denounce reserve and self-control
Harry and Meghan embody my silly generation; its culture, language and hypocrisies. They obsess about identity. They’ve won prizes simply for being themselves. They accuse the media of bias when their Netflix documentary is packed with disputed claims.
The Palace once said “recollections may vary”, yet nothing can trump this perfectly postmodern pair who have spoken “their truth” on every platform going, as if the pain they subjectively feel is more important than facts or the feelings of others. The Sussexes would be the first to use that menacing phrase “be kind” (or ze beatings vill continue!), but they’ve shown no kindness whatsoever to the Royal family, months after we lost Queen Elizabeth. And for all their championing of those without a voice – from tennis players to pop stars – they’ve picked on the one group of people who can’t answer back, because they are obliged to stay quiet.
The royal silence will no doubt be interpreted as cold indifference, which brings me to the meat of my grudge: the rise of emotional tyranny.
The Sussexes are empathetic. They emote beautifully. And the excavation of their feelings is implied to be a victory over toxic masculinity and the prison of British reserve. “I’ve always been a hugger!” Meghan tells us, a charming trait she shares with children and boa constrictors, but the Windsors are apparently not: the “formality” they showed on the “outside”, to strangers, carried on to the “inside”, to loved ones.
If true, then this makes them a minority in modern Britain – or at least far removed from the new normal that says football managers must double as therapists and politicians should feel our pain. Take BBC One’s new game show The Traitors, in which contestants perform It’s a Knockout!style tasks to build up a winning pot of £120,000. The twist is that three of their number are secretly “traitors”, who “murder”, or evict, one of the “faithful” players every night. The next day, the remaining competitors have a go at guessing who the traitors are and voting them off.
It’s an immoral show that rewards manipulation and, for that precise reason, is utterly compelling. It’s also the most emotionally incontinent thing I’ve ever seen. Everyone cries at the drop of a hat; the men do so the most. One lad – 24, estate agent, could easily play for England – became so overwrought at being accused of treachery that he had a panic attack and had to be counselled by producers. I’m not casting stones. I once had a panic attack upon boarding a flight to Singapore: I saw I’d be spending 14 hours squeezed next to an enormous gentleman who was elbow-deep in a giant pack of Doritos, and demanded I be let off. But we’d already left the gate, so, to calm me down, the lovely crew sat me in first class. I ended up having quite a nice time.
As an infrequent passenger, my hysteria was tolerable. Were I a pilot, it might be a matter for concern, which is why self-control ought to be more celebrated than it is. Yes, denying your anxieties is stupid. Acknowledging them is healthy. Mastering them, however, is near-sublime. Let us assume that the Sussexes are right and some of the royals are miserable. Doesn’t that make the fact that they get on with the job without complaint all the more admirable? Older generations thought so; they’d stay unhappily married “for the children”, or keep working as a doctor, despite long hours and bad pay, because the world needs doctors. Happiness was sacrificed for duty. Harry and Meghan, by contrast, ran away to America to spend more time on themselves, and should one express disgust at this dereliction, it is answered with eyes flooded with unquestionable trauma. “Do you know how hard it was living in that palace?”
I’m not saying such emotion is faked, but The Traitors shows it can be, easily. Thus far, the faithful have struggled to identify the real traitors – they keep voting off each other by mistake – in part because they have been trained by contemporary culture to trust anyone who cries. You cannot fake emotion like that, they insist, unfamiliar with the craft of acting. By contrast, they vote out entirely faithful players because they don’t cry enough, including the only contestant who actually needed the money: a disabled woman who wished to buy a prosthetic arm. What signalled her out as a potential traitor? When the contestants toasted each other with drinks, it was noted that she didn’t raise her glass like everybody else. I couldn’t, she said at her trial. I’m missing an arm.
Blind emotionalism does not automatically translate into freedom and equality; it can foster prejudice against those who are a bit different and a new hierarchy that privileges feelings over reason. Sinking to the bottom of the pile are rarities, like me and the Windsors, who reserve our tears for dead pets and Christmas carols – out of instinct, how we were raised, or a conviction that less is more.
The funeral of her late Majesty was a throwback to a different time; in a shuffling queue or the pews of a church, we rediscovered the power of silence, or to allow poetry and music to speak on our behalf. It was a poignant oasis. The more the Sussexes throw at the royals, accusing them of an absence of feeling, the more I think the monarchy is worth every penny. Here, in an age of talk, talk, talk, is a group of people who just get on with it, and let service speak for itself.