Soap Oprah: Whose side are you on?

Harry and Meghan: The Palace or Republicanism?

So, now the blood has soaked into the shagpile, what did you make of the Soap Oprah? I’ve been in Britain since the broadcast and let me tell you, there’s no other topic of conversation. Over 11 million Brits tuned in to watch Meghan and Harry lob Molotov cocktails at the royal family. We can only hope the Royals were wearing their emotional flak jackets to survive the bombardment.

For two solid hours of the Oprah broadcast all I could hear was the plopping sound of Brits falling face forward into their sticky toffee puddings. There were just so many Molotov moments. The most dramatic was no doubt the revelation that a member of the royal family allegedly asked Harry how brown Archie’s skin would be. Everyone in Britain is now playing a new parlour game – “Guess the Racist.”

Then there were the Dianna echoes when Meghan revealed that she received no help after becoming suicidal. Reaction in Britain has fractured along generational lines. The Oldies see Harry and Meghan as spoilt narcissists, keeping fit by doing step aerobics off their own egos. They suspect Harry of drinking too many Californian kale smoothies and Meghan of a cynical desire to destroy the royal family to secure a better Netflix deal and a self-centred need to be me-deep in conversation.

The younger generation however, see the couple as sympathetic victims of racism and sexism. They’re equally appalled that Meghan’s mental health issues were treated as nothing more than psychological hypochondriac.

Nor do the young doubt Meghan endured snobbery. As we Aussies know too well, upper class Brits who send their shirts out to be stuffed, have a condescension chromosome – especially when it comes to colonials. At posh English parties, I’ve looked up so many noses – even people shorter than me!

Also, as a feminist, I instinctively try to avoid the trope of the difficult woman — the gold digger, the manipulator, the fake, the liar, the two-faced bitch and all other sexist clichés. The British press have demonised every woman who’s married into the Monarchy – Wallace Simpson, Diana, Camilla, Fergie …Even Kate Middleton was condescended to because her Mother once worked as a flight attendant. Initially everywhere Kate went, snobs would whisper smugly, “Doors to Manual.”

In short, you can’t always blame the royal women. Not unless they’re Henry the 8th, that is.

Still, we are in the middle of a devastating pandemic. People are dying or losing their homes and livelihoods. It appears unbelievably petty to squabble about which Duchess made the other Duchess blub over flower girls’ dresses when most people are crying over how to pay the rent.

And what of the royal reaction? The British upper class are not a demonstrative breed. You have to do open heart surgery to know what goes on inside a Poshie. “Never complain, never explain” is their motto, along with stiff upper everythings and facial expressions by taxidermy. When scandal breaks, a Royal’s modus operandi is to just lie low for a bit and then unveil a hospital plaque.

So there’s little doubt the Windsors are coiled into a collective foetal ball of cringing horror at the invasion of their privacy. But it’s also not lost on the Brits that the Sussexes, while claiming to want to live out of the public eye, have enthusiastically invaded their own privacy.

So, what next in the Royal saga? Meghan is a Hollywood actress, so of course, she’s Disney-ified the script by comparing herself to the “Little Mermaid”, who married the prince but lost her voice. But Meghan’s given this fishy tale a feminist rewrite. Armed, not with a sword but a sharpened tongue, she’s rescued her Prince from the poisoned palace and whisked him away to the enchanted realm of a Santa Barbara $14 million dollar mansion, where they’ll live happily ever after… Or will they?

One thing’s for sure, the whole sorry saga will cure little girls of wanting to marry Princes. Far too often, fairy tale weddings end up being scripted by the Brothers Grimm. I wish the couple well, but Hazza, if it does all end in tears, and you decide your wife puts the Meg into Megalomania, I want you to know that I’m available. Lady Lette does have a certain ring to it, right? And I can promise the Palace that the only feathers I’ll ruffle, will be those of our rescue chickens. Although I do have a warning for anyone who henpecks me….(as pictured.)

Actually, I would have liked to have heard more in-depth views from the rescue hens, wouldn’t you?

But I’m curious to hear your views. You can see from this piccie, that Harry didn’t always suffer from a humour ectomy. Well, he didn’t put me in The Tower at any rate!

Cheers for now, Kathy x