As seen in the Daily Telegraph
Tis the end of silly season, when those of us who presume to scribe for a living scrape the bottom of the barrel. So we return to Markle, Duchess of Sussex and driver of clicks, summoning up the venom and spewing it over her American habits (shudder).
Truth be told, I am not dispositionally opposed to her, partly for raison d’biographie. Having failed to make it to Cambridge on the first attempt, I snuck in as a postgraduate studying for a two-year MPhil. I showed up to my Middle Common Room in a borrowed Old Carthusian tie, a too-big Barbour (‘it belonged to an uncle in the Guards, dear’) and an invented family connection to the ‘Duke of Omnium’.
Like her, I once saw the ladder to my advancement reposed in the trousers of a floppy-haired scion of the English upper classes
So I have always nursed a sneaking fondness for my fellow adventurer Meghan Markle, a Los Angeles girl-done-good. Like her, I once saw the ladder to my advancement reposed in the trousers of a floppy-haired scion of the English upper classes, the dopey Sebastian Flyte to my wily Charles Ryder, a golden-haired youth whom I met at the Oratory in the long, blissful summer of 2022. But like Meghan, my plans came unstuck when the fellow’s harridan of a grandmother sniffed out my esurient appetites and put a hard stop to my Chalfontian scheming.
So you shall not hear me denounce a fellow opportunist. Indeed, you may even note that I stayed my hand during l’affaire d’Arday, despite it concerning my own alma mater. And as such I cannot bring myself to join in the chorus of abuse that’s now being directed at the Sussexes in the lead-up to reverse Meg-exit. I feel the selfsame softness towards them that I feel to Afghan migrants who convert to Christianity, whither the tabloid nonsense about them getting a little handsy with the locals. So while I could pen a cool 700 words with my eyes closed on how one can’t have the privileges of royalty without the responsibilities, my heart isn’t in it.
Is my hack’s instinct going dull? At a Young Conservatives event held in London last week (the organisers generously stretched the definition of ‘young’ to include the under-fifties) I decided to sound out some of the people whose judgment I trust.
‘Meghan is not in charge. I am in charge now,’ said Kemi Badenoch – herself no stranger to the telling of tall tales. ‘Meghan needs to stop talking. She needs to go away and be quiet for a while. She is trying to commentate. I am trying to lead. The Conservative party is under new management.’
I refilled my glass of white wine before heading towards Grant Shapps, an omnipresence at dingy Tory drinks events since losing his seat in 2024. He dodged my question, and instead told me about an exciting business opportunity that involves selling kitchen knives door-to-door.
My last port of call was that venerable dreadnought of the Telegraph, Lord Blackwater, aka Simon Heffer. As ever, at the mention of a non-white person, Lord Blackwater interjected to inform me that Enoch Powell was not a racist and that he would have been a staunch supporter of Mrs Markle.
I returned home none the wiser. Settling into my favourite armchair with a cup of Earl Grey, I condescended to ask Mummy what she thought of the whole issue. What followed was a string of unprintable expletives (‘Hollywood bimbo’ being the least racially tinged) that caused my loyal pooch Coleridge to bolt from the room.
I smiled ruefully. We writers can write fussy recondite essays defending the constitutional settlement, but as ever it is the Mail sidebar that animates the vox populi. Those purchasers of silver jubilee tea sets who a generation ago fixed portraits of George VI to the walls of their landings. Those legions of loyal subjects who bless His Majesty King Charles with unimpeachable popular sovereignty.
Comments