Remember how the wedding of Harry and Meghan made us feel happy and full of hope?  For tomorrow?  Remember how the same emotions swept over us, and the world, when President Barack Hussein Obama was elected the first African American president of the United States of America?  We knew the moment we dabbed our eyes dry, the love, encircling and massaging the world, would be stopped in its tracks by . . .

Hate.

We were not naïve.  We’d cried and sympathized with Princess Diana and Sarah Ferguson, Duchess of York, when they spoke about the net of tense struggles they waltzed into by marrying into the monarchy.  Their pain was never about not knowing how low or wide to curtsy to some old do-nothin’ troll perched on a throne.  Their pain was also never about being caught by surprise by formality.

It’s always been about respect, the lack of it, and too much petty jealousy.  Prince Charles couldn’t handle that his young bride Princess Diana had a better face for photos and a better personality for people and a better disposition as a person and a better grasp of what her role was as a human being and not just as a princess.

Prince Charles, unable to learn from his own mistakes—because he never had to—saw the same behavior repeating, the same rift developing, the same chasm widening and dividing his sons, and what did he do?  He joined with the clone most like him, Prince William, as any narcissistic personality would.

It did not have to be this way.

Swirling.  This “niggling suspicion” emerged that Prince Harry, being Princess Diana’s son, would be just the sort of chap to get wrapped up in the sheets of a girl from a different world; that is to say, the pale and hopeful felt some kind of way.  But most of us, especially the brown-eyed masses, looked forward to a smudge of color showing up in Buckingham Palace, however watered down or white-washed.

The joy of Harry and Meghan’s nuptials seemed to bring as many tears to then Prince Charles’s eyes as ours.  That is to say, even Prince Charles seemed happy.  When he walked Meghan down the aisle, he seemed like a proud papa, the proud papa Meghan’s own father refused to be.  Her own flesh-and-blood father, knowing no loyalty to his own daughter, cleared the royal red carpet for Prince Charles to show the humanness we, for so long, doubted he had.  One father’s abuse of his daughter gave another, having no daughter of his own, an opportunity to be her knight in shining armor.  And what a heartwarming way to welcome her into the family!  The Royal Family.

Stolen kisses from English teenage boys ensued!  Trips to this part of the world!  Then to that!  There seemed to be no limitations to the world’s love for Harry and his Meghan.

“Alas, joy is fleeting.

Fairy tales don’t exist without villains.”

Across the pond, an unhappy woman, thick of calves, a back side as flat as a prison mattress, and the countenance of an old-faced teddy bear, scowled behind closed doors.  By her chilly side stood a spoiled boy who, being self-absorbed and controlling, deprived her of the affection his subjects lavished on his brother—until, with his permission, of course, she learned to smile big and wave.  Above the boy child was an older, wizened boy child, whose mouth had gone dry salivating for the crown and the day he would be king.  It is whispered that a set of very green eyes, sometimes large and glaring, sometimes small and mean-girl petty, passed between them.

Harry and Meghan overshadowed the heir apparent and his withered wife.  Harry and Meghan outworked those backstabbing sulkers; they  carried out their royal duties and engagements for charities, diligently and with glee.  And because Harry and Meghan out-wowed a couple of slackers in the London press and in the hearts of a fawning public, in Kate and William’s possession, the very green eyes, predictably, bucked and rolled.

Lo and behold, for the trust Harry and Meghan earned, vicious tabloid scorn manifested for Meghan.  Without her lifting a finger, manufactured praise for bland and fusty Lazy Katie.

What’s most upsetting in this fairy tale garden turned dog park is that the beloved Queen on the throne didn’t hobble off to help.  Surrounded by a litter of porgies warding off death’s arrival, she, listening to her useless heart of stone, didn’t so much as lift her iron cane to keep love alive.

One dismissive flick of a queenly hand—or prolooooonged hiss from a prince—would have plugged up all outlets spewing this hateful puppy doo.  Mum and the Firm managed to call off the rabid newshounds when they were nipping at William’s Lazy Katie, ravenous to get at her raw chicken nuggets and cutlets in her sun suit.  Why not for Harry’s Meghan?

Instead, the full-time royals worked over time to be full-time assholes, loosing the hounds.  Meghan’s overwhelmed, the rags and pee pads said.  Meghan made Lazy Katie cry!  Meghan’s sort of straight outta Compton!  She’s a social climber!  Meghan has exotic DNA!  Show the baby or go back to America!  The constant barrage of negative press—the dog whistling—went beyond bizarre to fear-of-grave-bodily-harm hostile.

Dare we say . . . racist?

So what if, having a symbiotic relationship with the press, the royals feed each other like Kibbles ‘n Bits to the dogs?  No husband with common, royal, or no sense would stand or sit whilst the press—with the Firm’s blessing—engage in a smear campaign to nudge his wife to the edge of suicide.

Don’t be fooled.  Flinging the same negative stories about the Duke and Duchess of Sussex never bores the British.  In a manner of speaking, the British media, with all their mudslinging, achieved perhaps one unexpected but happy objective: they made mud slicks out of Sandringham molehills.  Oversaturation made the Brits weary of the Sussexes, though the Sussexes, themselves, are rarely seen.

Or heard.

So the minute Harry and Megan stir up a Netflix deal to spill, once and for all, a few drops of strong black tea—uniquely and solely their own—the Brits cry, “Rubbish!”

“Recycled rubbish!”

Bored?  Weary?  Why the profound interest then?  The number 1 Netflix release in Britain didn’t watch itself.  Pavlovian Brits (now conditioned to hate Harry and Meghan, especially Meghan) will always sniff about for a fix because as wooden as Wills and Kate are, it’s hard to feel anything for a couple of vapid mannequins.

It’s no wonder that Harry found himself stepping into a royal poop show when negotiating Megxit.  One overgrown boy, a jealous brother, screaming and shouting at him.  The other ole boy, wizened without wisdom, barking lies—presumably instead of hissing.  And granny.  Dear granny, sitting by, feebly taking it all in, in support of rottenness.  A shunt to divert progress.

With all that keeping quiet and carrying on, no accountability from anyone, the press or the royals, and none expected, Harry and Meghan—as working royals—were doomed from the start.  With their publicly funded security pulled, March 14, 2020, the day of escape, couldn’t come quick enough.

To paraphrase Harry, it’s a low-down, dirty shame the Firm couldn’t embrace Meghan for doing the job others were born to do . . . better.