Out of the Blue

A Royal Pain

All the fashion and feuds fit to print

By Deborah Salomon

Enough already!

In the late 18th century, Colonists waged an eight-year war to gain independence from an English king and his government. Now we seem to be creeping back into the fold. The Sussexes get more internet ink than the Trumps and the Bidens combined. Most reports are no more than yesterday’s news rehashed, sporting a sexy headline suggesting scandal, bankruptcy, feuds and divorce, dressed up in designer outfits with ridiculous hats.

No report is too old or too petty. In late July, this headline surfaced: “Biden Snubs the Sussexes.” Seems Meghan and Harry asked Joe for a ride back home on Air Force One after the queen’s funeral, which took place last September. Joe declined, fearing the wrath of King Charles III.

What nerve! Obviously, Markle’s mark is all over a move that would have cemented her status stateside. Instead, the same week, reports of a teary duchess accompanied the headline “Meghan Struggling in Hollywood.”

In desperation for something more au courant, the scandalmongers have dug up dirt on Prince Edward-the-Meek, the one who as a young man shunned princehood for the entertainment industry. Eventually, Mummy lured him back, married him off to a respectable woman and dispatched him to open hospitals.

Currently, dominating daily briefings are Princess Kate’s fashion choices and the neo-normalcy enjoyed by her children, as though every 10-year-old wearing a tailored-to-measure blazer sits in the royal box at Wimbledon.

But I guess that makes better reading than Charles evicting his naughty brother Andrew from a royal residence because bro’s BFF was the late Jeffrey Epstein. Do I remember reading that pre-scandal, Andrew was known to be Mummy’s favorite?

Well, Charles settled that score.

What really sticks in my craw is King Charles’ oft-reported desire to scale down the monarchy, maybe save a few hundred thousand pounds by deflating the pomp. He might start with the royal wardrobes, where designers are named for every thread worn by Camilla/Meghan/Kate. Then he could fire the scribe who keeps tabs on what was worn where, by each, since when appearing together royal wives must be color-and-style coordinated. Should they clash, heads roll. When in Scotland, tartans and cashmere required. Cleavage must be kept under wraps. Nobody leaves the castle bare-legged. I can’t imagine the adorable children in mismatched shorts and Popsicle-stained Ts, let alone scuffed sneakers (which Brits call plimsolls).

Ah, yes . . . the Brits have a zippy word for everything. This ancient Duke University English major is certain Will Shakespeare would have dubbed Meghan a vixen. Her motives were visible out of the gate: Not on the Hollywood A-list, she parlayed a confused, saddened, rebellious prince into a ticket to ride . . . on the royal train, private jets and a gold-encrusted carriage. She parlayed well. Remember, she’s an actress, unafraid to flout the queen’s rule governing public displays of affection by constantly gripping Harry’s hand. She squirreled away every actual and perceived slight to be regurgitated for Oprah. Then, tearfully, she convinced Harry to leave the only life he’s known for her turf, along with their two adorable red-haired babies.

Harry, in her thrall, wrote a book that inflamed the family he purports to “love.” And now this antithesis of a Montecito surfin’ dude claims to be “happy.” I watched Harry: The Interview with British journalist Tom Bradby. Harry did not look happy. He looked angry, defensive, cornered. Their moneymaking schemes are crumbling. She wants a bigger, “safer” house. Bigger, that is, than their current nine-bedroom, 16-bathroom, $14 million pad. He just wants a boys’ night out with Daddy and Will.

The tabloid press whispers splitsville.

I miss the queen. She was a class act.

I can’t believe I’ve fallen into the trap. I devour daily bulletins on royal rumblings, gloat over the ones that prove my conclusions. At least the Sussexes deflect attention from all that ails the world.

Yada yada yada, as Seinfeld would say. This soap opera is far from curtains.  PS

Deborah Salomon is a contributing writer for PineStraw and The Pilot. She can be reached at debsalomon@nc.rr.com.