I don't know about you, but I need a break. After so many weeks of anguish over Israel and Palestine, of growing suspicions (which I don't share, but let's leave it today) that Russia is going to win the war in Ukraine, of contemplating the stupefying story of the fantastic Javier Milei, after all this , and more, it was with relief and a certain joy that I read this Thursday about the imminent decline of the most repellent celebrity couple in the world.
I am referring to Harry and Meghan, a subject of fascination for almost the same number of planetary inhabitants as the destruction of Gaza, the agony of Zelensky or whether the madman will save or destroy Argentina. The comedy (yes, enough of the tragedy) began four years ago when the grandson of the then Queen Elizabeth II and his brand new actress wife decided to abandon the Perfidious Albion, and its perfidious journalists and its perfidious monarchy in search of peace and “the privacy” on the West Coast of North America.
Few inhabitants of the islands regretted their escape, but they were received – initially – in His Majesty's former colonies with pity and admiration, as if they had been exiled from an atrocious dictatorial regime. From the Californian mansion with 18 bathrooms to which they moved, they cried, and they cried, and they didn't stop crying. “We are victims of the greed, the coldness, the resentment, the racism of our illustrious, rich and evil relatives,” they repeated over and over again before the television cameras, in their podcasts, in their confessional books.
And it worked. They lined up. A contract of 100 million dollars with Netflix, another of 20 million with Spotify. Harry's autobiography, written by a loyal courtier named Omid Scobie, was a worldwide best seller. They rubbed shoulders with celebrities from Hollywood and beyond, with George and Amal Clooney, Oprah Winfrey, Kevin Costner, Elton John, Idris Elba, the Beckhams. Everyone smiled with them in the photos, but everyone knew that, deep down, Harry and Meghan were suffering, and they shared their pain. And they saw nothing contradictory in the fact that they spoke ill of the institution of the monarchy but at the same time insisted on being called “the Duke and Duchess of Sussex,” and their two children “prince” and “princess.” On the contrary, the aristocracy sells well in the powerful American republic, and selling itself well is what the famous people of the United States value most and know how to do best.
Only now Harry and Meghan have gone into decline, they lose the magic. Instead of being objects of veneration, they are objects of ridicule. One day America woke up and saw that the Duke and Duchess were naked.
Everything started to turn upside down a few months ago when the television sitcom South Park mocked them (“the foolish prince and his stupid wife”) in a 20-minute skit titled “the privacy world tour.” Alarmed, Harry sought refuge in his homeland. He flew to England to participate in the coronation of his father, Charles III, and, to his surprise but no one else's, he was condemned to the back seats, to the Siberia of royal protocol.
He returned to the mansion with 18 bathrooms, where Meghan told him the devastating news that first Netflix and then Spotify had canceled their contracts. This week we understood exactly why. The only publication that Harry and Meghan read, The Hollywood Reporter, condemned them to the C-list of celebrities with a devastating sentence: “In 2020, the royal duo fled a life of ceremonial public service to cash in on their royal status. celebrity in the United States. But after a whiny Netflix documentary, a whiny biography, and an inert podcast, Harry and Meghan's brand inflated into a sanctimonious bubble just begging to be burst.” A Spotify executive joined the stone. He denounced them as “a couple of fucking scammers.”
Calamities followed one after another. An opinion poll in the United States indicated that the most popular celebrity in that country was… Prince William, the heir to the English throne, the older brother with whom Harry has not spoken for a long time. Then the oleaginous Omid Scobie, eager to squeeze the last drop of money from his closeness to Harry and Meghan, wrote a book in which he mentioned the names of the two members of the royal family who were supposedly the racists he had alluded to. the couple in a television interview three years ago.
The accusation is based on the fact that, when Meghan became pregnant, these two characters had speculated about the skin color of the future child. Scobie identified them as King Charles and the future Queen Catherine, William's wife, Meghan's number one object of hatred. The problem is that everyone believes that Meghan and Harry encouraged Scobie to appoint Charles and Catherine. The other problem is that, even if it were true that they had said conversation, the idea that the two are guilty of racism has not penetrated.
Meghan identifies as “black,” although few would say so at first glance, or without first seeing her mother, who clearly is. Harry is whiter than flour. Therefore, as in the case of any pair of future parents with different physical features, some relatives wondered how the baby would come out. What killed the controversy was the intervention of Chris Rock, the best-known black comedian in the United States. “That's not racist,” he said. “Even black people want to know what shade of brown their babies will be.”
The latest disaster in sight, almost as serious as the possibility of Harry having to beg money from his dad, is that Clooney, Costner and company are said to no longer want to be in the photo with the ducal duo. A Hollywood producer explained to The Times of London that the British market is important for American actors, and that nothing is better than the presence of William and Catherine at the premieres of their films: “That's why no one wants to be seen in public as a friend of Harry or Meghan.”
That's it. The farce is over, good news for the world, a pleasant lesson, a sign that the levels of stupidity are going down a little. Now, if the Trump farce could end too... but, no, sorry. Let's leave that for another day.
