A Royal Pain

And you think YOU have problems with your sick relatives, bills, flooded basement? And you think Michael Jackson has problems with his trial?

All of those are mere trifles compared to what this guy faces. Writes Washington Post columnist Eugene Robinson:

Imagine you’re a 56-year-old man, famously unemployed. Your mother is a domineering executive consumed by her work, your father a dour martinet who inhabits a little surviving time bubble of the 19th century. Your first marriage was such a royal disaster it nearly brought down the venerable family firm. But you escaped with a divorce, and then your first wife tragically died, and finally you were free to marry your mistress, the true love of your life. But “Mummy” disapproved, and Mummy — as she often reminds you — is still the boss.

No, this story is not about Ronald Reagan. He called Nancy “Mommy,” not “Mummy.” More:

After seven long years, she finally consents. The big day approaches — your day, for once, not your mother’s or your glamorous first wife’s, a day when the world’s flashbulbs will pop only for you and your betrothed (whom your first wife had cruelly called “the Rottweiler” just because you were seeing her on the side, which was well within your rights, being a future king and all).

Then the pope dies, and the perfidious Vatican schedules the funeral on your day. Bloody hell, didn’t old Henry VIII take care of the Catholic problem? Have your staff look that up, but meanwhile there’s nothing to do but soldier on, shaded by the dark cloud that follows your every step.

Does a more thoroughly and amusingly jinxed individual walk the face of this Earth than Charles Philip Arthur George, Prince of Wales?

Yes, it does seem amazing. There are actually even more complications in this story. It makes you realize Fate can be a merciless equalizer.


PS: And the weather report for Prince Charles’ wedding day? Snow.