I’m taking bets: which royal body part will be photographed next? Perhaps Fergie’s belly button, or the Queens left nostril. Rumour has it the Greek press has its eye on Charles’ earlobe.
Doubtless the more patriotic among you were horribly outraged after Kate became the first royal to be caught topless in France since Louis the 16th had his head amputated. But whilst the invasion of Kate’s privacy was certainly egregious, the very forced response of bilious outrage from the national media, and the muddled comparisons with Diana, betray the very confused attitude we Brits still have towards those spoiled anachronisms we feed and clothe. And not least to women’s body parts.
The most notable aspect of this scandal has been the nauseating hypocrisy spewing out from the British Tabloids. Richard Desmond, owner of The Daily Star, is currently threatening to close down the Irish edition of that paper over its decision to publish the pictures. What a kind gesture from the man who also owns Red Hot TV and Television X. Meanwhile The Sun, having tragically used up the “defence of press freedom” excuse in showing us Harry’s bum last fortnight, has been equally critical of those posting Kate’s mammary glands. As far as The Sun is concerned double-standards are only a thing if somebody else has them.
Meanwhile, for the less shouty sections of the press the name of the game has been hyperbole. The French, we are told, have failed to learn the lessons of Diana, and soon no doubt, Kate’s buxom bazoongas will likewise be killed in an underground car crash. But the very comparison is so inane, so strangely morbid, that it seems almost hopeful. Indeed the media would love a new Diana, resurrected like a beardless Jesus, ready to cause scandals anew, and now with added bare-titty action. Someone to alternately pester and then become indignant and self-righteous over the excessive pestering that person receives.
Tony Blair famously said that Diana was ‘the people’s princess’, but she was more like the nation’s childhood pet goldfish. Britain watched her from behind glass, it loved her, fed her and paid endless attention to her and imagined (with childish naivety) that she loved us back. And then inevitably, perhaps after too much tapping on the glass of her tank, our over-enthusiastic childish negligence finally killed her. Then, wrecked with grief and guilt, we bawled our eyes out until at last daddy found us some new pet to love and abuse.
Any attention this story gets is symptomatic of our strange obsession with the royals: our ancient, 24 hour soap opera. Even people who consider themselves above the regal gossip pages of the Daily Mail still use their royal Majesties as a topic of conversation, albeit a more pretentious one. They are essentially hired entertainers. Following them helps us escape from our tired, mundane, sceptre-less lives. In a perfect world we would cut out the middlemen and the Windsors would be replaced by naked circus clowns who can have affairs with Egyptian-born sons of billionaires and play games of strip pool in Las Vegas at much lower prices.
When the French snapped those images of Kate’s unsuspecting chest, the outrage that followed was not just a fair response to an invasion of privacy. No, we were angry because the French had messed with our icon, our pet princess. Something only we should be allowed to do. The Royal Family are our own bizarre, functionless, flawed and beloved icons, and they belong to us.
There may be lessons we can learn from this incident about press freedom, privacy and national identity. But perhaps there something far more pertinent we can garner from the French. We could stand to learn a lot from the way they treated their royals: by ending this peculiar and perverse obsession and finally shouting “off with their heads!”
