The prince or the pauper
Pity poor Prince Harry, variously known as HRH Prince Henry of Wales, Second Lieutenant Henry Charles Albert David Windsor, or (the crowd favorite) Prince Hot Ginge.
And lately as “Fizz Royal Highness.”
(Now, seriously, you’ve gotta give it up for those British headline-writers)
Harry just can’t win. See, the other day the Sun (followed by the other tabloids and the part of the blogosphere that knows its HRH from its HSH) reported that the young lad had gone out to Bouji’s, one of his favorite haunts, and a nightclub approximately as discreet as Courtney Love on a bender. They reported, additionally, that he had spent £10,000 in four hours buying himself, friends, and random nearby strangers bottle after bottle of extravagant Champagne.
This report was entirely false.
The appallingly abstemious royal was actually at the club for one and a half hours, during which time he had exactly one glass of Champagne and one bottle of beer. And not even one the big, fun ones.
Well, I don’t know about you. We haven’t even been introduced. I only know about me. And I’m with the great philosopher Peg Bracken on this: we Poors don’t want our Riches to play down to us, pretending to enjoy meatloaf and treating us to a “Plus One” ride on their bus passes. No indeed, I, she, and all right-thinking people prefer our royals on the dashing, out-splashing side; leave monasticism to the professionals!
My god, if you can’t count on a handsome, brave, fit, rich young biker prince to roll into a nightclub, go a titch Farouk and start laying the overpriced magnums on unsuspecting proles left and right in full royal style, what’s the actual point of the monarchy?
Honestly! “Royal goes to bar, drinks moderately, goes home quietly.” What, I ask again, is the point? For this Britain pays £7,900,000 a year?
The other big royal story of the week? Prince Charles’ favorite nag broke her leg. No report on when she’s being put down.