When you spend your formative years growing up in a country like England, you become one of them in many ways whether you like it or not. So, when a very ugly side of the British is shown every day in the media, you think, “I thought this side of the British character had gone, replaced by exposure to multiculturalism and modern technology.” With every kind of tool now available to get information about people or countries, there is no excuse when so-called Royal experts and racists twist the narrative with lies and misinformation in their quest to destroy Diana’s youngest son. We all know how much it hurts a child if preference is shown to one sibling while you go unattended, and Charles is showing the world that the only child he has is William. William is showing the world that the sun, moon, and Palace rotate around him, his ego, and his mischief.

I do not know the man, but I know about him through well-placed friends, many of whom were at school with me. I also hear what the children of my friends in those high circles say about their friend William, and let me tell you, it’s not good. I ask you, haters of Harry, where is Kate Middleton? Where has she disappeared to, and why are the British public being kept in the dark about this woman who married into a family that no aristocratic woman in their right mind would ever go near?

I’ve already touched on this truth that when Diana died, the titled families of Great Britain looked at how badly the daughter of an Earl from one of the oldest families in England was treated. Diana’s family has more English royal blood in them than the German Windsors, who changed their German name from Saxe-Coburg to Windsor during the First World War. Charles is more German than he is English; Philip was Danish, Greek, and German. The Queen was Scottish and German, so I ask you, why the arrogance and snobbery when it comes to the girl from Compton, California? It didn’t help that her white family ran her down, sold their stories to every rag they could find on Google. That must have hurt a lot.

On the other side of the coin is a large southern Black family that not one of us has ever heard about or heard a word from during these tumultuous times. It’s not like her mother did not expose her child to the African American family; it’s just because they have decided to keep quiet, horrified by the treatment their daughter is receiving from left, right, down, and sideways. It comes fast and furious every minute of the day. Chris Rock joked that she should have done homework on the family she was marrying into, that anyone with any common sense would want to find out what happened to Diana and what their history with racism is.

It takes 500 years to get the right English garden; that’s how they judge their pedigree, by hundreds of years of carefully thought-out marriages, which is why you get treble-barrel names in some cases and double in a lot of upper-class families.

I remember a friend I knew from school had a wonderful girlfriend whose father had some very old English title, not Norman, an Anglo title from the days of King Harold. He wanted to marry her until she made the mistake of telling him that she was adopted. All hell broke out. “What do you mean you are not the biological child of the Earl of whatever, and who were your biological parents?” He called off the wedding, telling us all he needed to know what bloodline he was going to mix with his family. People were outraged, but my friend stuck to his guns and told the poor girl it was over, that he could not have children with an adopted woman. Luckily, someone from a very successful family ended up marrying the young lady, and everyone told her she was lucky and what a creep so-and-so was for what he did to her. This friend of mine went on to marry his cousin twice removed to make damn certain his long line of congenital idiots remained just that.

I tell no lie that when you grow up with these people, when you are allowed into the inner circle, you see and hear things that make your head spin. I like you, Kio, but I do not approve of interracial marriages, that’s how my white girlfriend’s father put it to me one summer in Greece. Nice guy, and guess what? He was the father of the guy who dumped his adopted girlfriend. I told him no problem, I was just practicing my skill with her, you old fart. It’s not my fault she liked the black bamboo. Oh, you should have seen his racist face. His wife burst out laughing, that much I will admit, as she thought he was crazy and being ridiculous.

I, for one, never thought I would see an interracial marriage in the Royal Family. I thought it was great that they had become so liberal and put it down to the very light skin Meghan has, that she could pass if she wanted to. The Queen was under the impression when she met Meghan that she was an Italian from southern Italy. Italians in Sicily look like her; the North African blood is so prevalent in them. So, as she had not been brought into the loop, she took her for an Italian. Do you think any woman of color will be knocking on the doors of Buckingham Palace anytime soon again? I don’t think so. I think the damage is so deep, the reputation of the Windsors so damaged, that it’s only social climbers hungry for titles and places that will be brides of that family from henceforth. It’s a wasted opportunity, a chance to bring people together, to show progress in race relations in the UK. Nothing has changed, absolutely nothing, in that place since the sixties and seventies. It’s the same old song and dance to the same old scratched record played by the same old outdated idiots.

Charles is the wrong person to modernize the Royal Family. He is an Edwardian, too stuck in his ways, the little boy who has to have his boiled egg cooked for precisely a certain amount of minutes, his bathwater at a certain temperature, his newspapers pressed by his butler. Nothing at his age is going to change that. Lastly, the shadow of Camilla Parker Bowles is everywhere now. He is her slave, and she, after all those years of being chastised, intends to live out the rest of her life as Queen Bee no matter what anyone says. I will say one thing about her to be fair and not seem biased. When I was playing polo every weekend in Cirencester, which is her stomping ground, not one person I met ever said a bad word about the woman. Not one, high or low, they all had nothing but praise for Camilla, who, from what I was told, is a very nice woman. Her loyal fox-hunting friends used to tell me, “Knowing you, Kio, you would like her if you met her.” Each to his own. I never met her, I have nothing against her, but I have problems with the power structure around her that is hell-bent on causing a crash.

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