Marry him or marry me
I’m the one that loved you baby can’t you see?
Ain’t got no future or family tree
But I know what a prince and lover ought to be
I know what a prince and lover ought to be
When is a prince not a prince?
This may be a silent question in many British minds currently.
When you “resign” from being a prince, do you cease being a prince?
What if we say you’re no longer a prince? Or the royal family say you’re no longer a prince?
Perhaps you cease to act in a way we would associate as “princely“? Still a prince?
Plato’s work on ideas and forms might help us here. Or, for those who are “bears of little brain“, like me, let’s think about my Grandad’s broom instead:
Grandad broke the shaft of the broom and replaced it. A few years later, the brush of the broom was too bare to be usable, so he replaced that. The broom was handed to my father who, in turn, had to replace the shaft and the brush a couple of times. I have the broom now and I’ve replaced both components too.
Is it still my Grandad’s broom?
As an idea, yes. As a form, no.
The British monarchy is something that doesn’t usually exercise my mind. When I think of it at all, I consider its current iteration as being of marginally more benefit than cost.
Similar to the way the US constitution uses the concept of God as a source of inalienable human rights, the UK unwritten constitution has evolved to view the Queen as the omnipresent benevolent figurehead, due considerably to her incredible personal discipline of keeping well out of matters of current affairs.
The corollary of this is the Napoleonic code in Europe, where human rights come from the government. Anyone who’s ever met a politician would find that concept repellent if they thought about it for a moment.
This burden of stoic and silent “duty” clearly sits uncomfortably on the shoulders of the following generation of royals. Charles has at various times expressed many half-baked opinions on climate, architecture, town planning and agriculture.
William wants us to stop having as many children as him, because he’s learned about Robert Malthus.
And Harry’s opinions are, well, whatever the fuck Meghan tells him they are.
“Prince” Harry is still a prince and, unfortunately for all of us, will be until and after he dies in a tragic road traffic accident on the way to the 2023 rugby World Cup final in Paris.
One has to have some sympathy for the fellah, though. Apart from the glaringly obvious massive privilege of his birth into a level of luxury and comfort us plebeians can only dream of, he was also handed the disadvantages of being a bit dim and ginger.
This seems like an impossible version of the game, “would you rather?”. Would you rather be poor and intelligent or massively wealthy and thick as mince? Tougher to pick than a broken nose.
Basically, he’s that mate you know who woke up one Sunday morning next to a “10” and then burned every bridge of friendship and family in order to keep her. Anyone who tried to suggest to him that her personality was attractive in inverse proportionality to her looks was ostracised immediately, preferably in a loud virtuous display to further prove his love and devotion to his girlfriend.
If the white Fiat Uno doesn’t get him on Le Peripherique, he’ll most likely top himself about three months after she grows bored of him. I’ll give it another two years, maximum.