House of scandal

“Oh leave the prophets
Who promise life divine —
Embrace the one
Who turns water into wine.”
From Kabuli Kissey
by Bachchoo
Historic days! The earth vibrates as it rotates and revolves — I don’t mean the apprehension and disposal of mass murderer and pointless fanatic O.B. Laden. I mean the seal on the romance of Prince William of the Royal House of Windsor

and Catherine Middleton, the “commoner” whose ancestors were north-England miners and whose parents run a business selling party balloons and knick-knacks.
They were married in pomp. Circumstance and a discerning Indian TV channel invited me to comment, over two days, on the proceedings.
Now Wills and Kate, as we must learn to call them in their demotic avatars, have gone off for their £4,000-a-day honeymoon in the Caribbean for a well-deserved rest — tiring stuff all that marrying! Or has that been cancelled? Only WikiLeaks can tell.
Not being a US Navy Seal, I confess I wasn’t present at the capture and execution of Bin Laden, but through the munificence of the above-mentioned Indian TV channel (whose name I don’t think my editor would not be happy for me to advertise) I was standing on broadcasting platforms outside Buckingham Palace and Westminster Abbey on the Thursday before and Friday of the wedding.
My sister Zareen (who was born in Abu Dhabi but lives in India) tells me that she was in Hong Kong during the wedding and missed my moments of glory but that her friends in India saw my broadcasts and were disappointed. They thought I was irreverent.
This saddens me as it was not my intention. On both days I wore different suits out of respect. I only mention this because for a week before there was a kerfuffle in the British press about what people were going to wear. There was endless speculation about the bride’s dress. There was a debate about whether Prime Minister David Cameron should wear a morning dress or a lounge suit. What would Camilla, the Duchess of Cornwall, wear? Who was designing the dress of Mrs Middleton, the ex-airhostess and bride’s mum?
There was obviously not much speculation as to what I would wear, but I decided on a linen suit with an open beige shirt on the first day and my other black suit with a white cotton shirt and no tie on the second. (Must buy one — all contributions welcome!)
Having been afforded my few minutes of, albeit limited, fame by this invitation to comment on the betrothal of these two beautiful young individuals who have contributed so much to civilisation, I began to compose my thoughts.
Four days before the event, the London police announced that all dissenting elements attempting to disrupt the wedding would be robustly dealt with. Islamicists had threatened on the Internet to mount mass protests against the wedding in order to undermine the “tyranny of Queen Elizabeth II”. For the life of me, apart from bad taste in her attire, I couldn’t think of anything that this poor Queen has ever done that amounts to tyranny.
Which led me to the thought that Britain doesn’t really have a monarchy. Ever since Cromwell’s rebellion chopped off King Charles I’s head it has had no monarchy but only a less and less potent royalty. The poor dears, though they live off the taxes of the people, have no say in anything.
So was I then a Republican? Having been associated all my life with Left-leaning or socialistic principles, I thought I should be. But then Britain would perhaps end up with a President Margaret Thatcher or a President Tony Blair and would I want that?
No! Better to spend taxpayer’s subsidy on the long running soap opera of royal weddings, three royal divorces out of four marriages in the current Prince of Wales’ generation, one out of two in the Queen’s generation, a tragic death in the car of a playboy of the divorced Princess Di, the scandal of Prince Andrew’s association with dodgy businessmen and a convicted paedophile, the amusing remarks of Prince Phillip about foreigners, the adventures in night clubs of Prince Harry and his girlfriend called Kensington or something, the refusal to invite Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of Elsewhere, to the wedding... Better than anything television writers can invent. And hey, I’m wrong! It’s not a soap opera — it’s the nation’s most revered reality show. Long live the show!
Those were the thoughts which I held in my head as I approached my moments of fame. The commentary from outside Buck House on the eve of the wedding was conducted by a charming young lady in Hindi. Now my proficiency in Hindustani is adequate, on occasion even lyrical in a clichéd, filmy-dialogue way, but doesn’t extend to subtle sarcasm or pointed ambivalence, so my answers and commentary were very positive and supportive of the young couple.
I was specifically asked and sincerely answered that theirs was, in contrast to that of William’s father Charles and his mother Diana Spencer, a love marriage. The world didn’t know it at the time, but Charles and Diana were married by arrangement. It didn’t seem to work. She was a world icon but he loved another.
The William and Catherine thing was love. They were at St. Andrews University where they met — up in remote Scotland where you can watch TV when the reception’s good, go to the one local pub or fall in love. Wonderful.
The royal family, conscious of the connection they have on pain of death to establish with the modern world, embraced their new “commoner” princess.
Some said she was the first such, so I thought it imperative to point out that Elizabeth Woodville who married Edward IV in the 15th century was deemed a “commoner”. She was the mother of the Princes in the Tower, murdered by their chacha Richard III who went on to usurp the throne. The whole thing didn’t end well.
My sister’s friend told Zareen that as I made this historic point the microphone was snatched from me, presumably because Indian viewers, unlike the Brits, can’t bear too much historic reality. In fact, no mikes were snatched. The hired TV platform, operated by a Polish cameraman and team, ran out of time.
God save the Queen!