The royals - Kitty Kelley [236]
When the Queen’s thirty-one-year-old son started dating Sophie Rhys-Jones, their romance was disparaged by one newspaper as “arranged for public consumption.” The tabloids speculated that the tall, blond Prince and his attractive girlfriend were decoys put forward by the Palace to divert attention from the rest of the family. Edward, always prickly about criticism, faxed London’s news organizations and demanded that reporters “leave me and my girlfriend alone and give us privacy.” The Queen obliged by letting it be known she had given permission for Sophie to spend nights with Edward in his apartment at Buckingham Palace. The Archdeacon of York scolded Her Majesty for allowing the couple to live in sin. “We still look to the royal family to set an example,” he said, urging the Windsors to return to the values of “no sex before marriage.” The Queen ignored the clergyman, and Prince Philip called him a pompous ass.
In June of 1994 the Prince of Wales yanked the loose thread of monarchy and watched in dismay as the ancient tapestry began unraveling. He admitted on television that he had been unfaithful to his wife. But, despite his adultery, he asserted that he would still be King. “All my life,” he said, “I have been brought up to… carry out my duty.”
The television interview conducted by Jonathan Dimbleby had been calculated by the Prince as his tit for her tat. His big bow-wow journalist would muffle the tinny arf of her tabloid lapdog. While Andrew Morton’s book had put the camel’s nose under the tent, Jonathan Dimbleby’s book brought the tent crashing down. In presenting his version of his marriage, Charles had ignored proverbial wisdom: “If you seek revenge, dig two graves.”
But Charles discarded the advice of his family, his friends, and his mistress, who had warned that nothing good could come of his candor. His beloved grandmother said she would have nothing to do with the project. But his private secretary, Commander Richard Aylard, had played to his pride and his vanity by arguing that he had to reclaim his status. “Put your side of the case, sir,” he said. Aylard convinced him that his best chance was to cooperate with the journalist and give him unprecedented access to personal letters and diaries. The zealous equerry was determined to help the Prince get even with the Princess. He felt that Dimbleby would be the most devoted vessel—and vassal. Aylard envisioned a one-two punch, starting with a flattering documentary, Charles: The Private Man, The Public Role, followed by a laudatory book, The Prince of Wales.
In the television interview Charles tried to prove his worth as a statesman by tackling the touchy subjects of religion, politics, and sex. He presented himself as qualified to become philosopher-king: an Oxbridge graduate, artist, minesweeper skipper, organic farmer, businessman, philanthropist, sportsman, ambassador, humanitarian.
He complained about the media and “the level of intrusion, persistent, endless, carping, pontificating, criticising, examining, inventing the soap opera constantly, trying to turn everyone into celebrities.”
He also spoke about the monarch’s role as Defender of the Faith, saying he would prefer not representing one religion, but rather all religions. Most memorable, though, was his admission of infidelity.
“Gobsmacked,” said the tabloids after hearing the Prince of Wales own up to adultery on television. While they pounded him, his supporters praised him. Historian Elizabeth Longford applauded his honesty, but most people were just plain appalled. The Sun set up a “You the Jury” telephone poll and reported that two-thirds of those who called said they did not want Charles to become King—ever. The Daily Mirror ran an editorial on the front page: “He is not the first royal to be unfaithful. Far from it. But he is the first to appear before 25 million of his subjects to confess.”
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