 by Dr. Jeffrey Lant Author's program note. For thousands of years, since our ancestors in caves learned how to do what comes naturally, men have been ogling women. It was their God- given right and no one but a few do-gooders thought anything about it. It was the way the world was, and we males liked it that way. Then the sexual revolution of the 1960s took a remarkable twist. Women started, tentatively at first, to ogle men... and all of a sudden sexual equality meant exactly that. The fig leaf, so firmly in place for millennia, was now dropped forever and ou la la meant Billie and Bobbie, not just Heather and Marie. Thus the world jumped at the chance to see His Royal Highness Prince Harry of Wales in the altogether, up close and very personal. The facts. HRH's office reported this week that 27 year old Harry was bushed from his unrelenting labors at the London Olympics. We empathize. It is, after all, strenuous work handing out gold medals and saying just the perfect word of victory or consolation. He surely needed the holiday he took and all its perquisites. But where to go? For the funnest prince on Earth it had to be the funnest place on Earth, somewhere outside the empire where the sun still never sets and where grandmama was sovereign, somewhere where he could kiss and no one would tell. And so it came to him, "Viva Las Vegas", the magic place where whatever happens stays. The perfect place to parteeeeeeeeeeeee! Now, let's be clear about what goes on in the town universally called "Vegas". Gambling. Sex. Celine Dion. Sex. Over abundant dinner. Sex. Capische? Let's be clear about something else. Harry is a bona fide prince of the bluest blood but the likelihood of his ever reigning is miniscule. His father Prince Charles would have to be out of the picture and his brother Prince William, the new Duke of Cambridge. Moreover, the minute Prince William and his alluring wife Kate have a kid, Harry goes down another notch, oblivion his destiny. What's a boy to do in such circumstances? Rod Stewart, loyal subject of the dynasty, has the answer, and he delivered it in his 1978 pop smash "Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?". He made the necessary moves as clear as a how-to book, listen, learn, do. "If you want my body and you think I'm sexy/Come on, sugar, let me know." And women did, slowly perhaps but undeniably, and a whole new genre of males was born. We called them boy toys. I was chagrined that I was old, far too old, to try on that persona and flaunt the little that was left. Call it caution. Call it common sense. Call it apprehension and fear. I demurred. But Prince Harry most assuredly did not. Thus, this junior prince of Wales started off with the obligatory game of strip pool, so popular, so prone to reckless betting of vestments. But then, who needs clothes, in Vegas of all places? Where was his security? Here is where every single alarm bell in the kingdom should have gone off and where Harry's security detail should have been johnny on the spot reminding him that stripping and flinging his glad rags on the floor was not, ahem, the best of all courses, sir. Such a warning may well have caused HRH to pause and come to his senses, keeping his clothes on his body. Had he heeded the warning, the world would have had to somehow get through the day adrift, without Harry's buff body to titillate and amuse us. But those bells did not go off... and this is a matter not for mirth but for concern. Where were those agents when he needed them? This calls for investigation, explanation and disciplinary action. Another matter for concern: the totally revealing photos which are now so easily accessible online are grainy, unprofessional, unclear; they resemble photos taken secretly from a closet or undisclosed location. In other words, our feckless prince, all uncomprehending, went into a room of strangers, lost his clothes and thereby became a golden meal ticket to a shutterbug who saw his chance in the naked body of this scion of Windsor to garner a king's ransom fast. It was ignoble, deplorable, but do-able the way our clueless prince so carelessly operates. Second royal child syndrome. Harry's singular problems began with his birth. In the old saying, "the heir and the spare," he was "the spare". In this situation, well known to every royal family, the heir gets the good stuff, all the good stuff; crown, kingdom, the respect of a great nation and its empire, and the best seat in the house for every royal pageant. Against this mountain of goodies, what "the spare" gets looks petty, derisory, even unfair. Yet it is the royal way. As a result, second children, princes like Harry's uncle Andrew, Duke of York, Prince Charles' younger brother, and princesses like Margaret Rose, the Queen's late younger sister, get indulged to a degree... perhaps because their reigning parents feel sorry for them. In short, there is guilt and lots of it, for all that this is the royal way. And so these indulged younger children run rampant in a way no heir to the throne would ever be allowed to do. Even more guilt in Harry's case. Harry was just 12 when his adored mother Diana Princess of Wales died. A great nation wanted to reach out and give him comfort. This, in time, turned into near carte blanche, as if he were entitled to do whatever he liked because of the great tragedy that was his burden for life and haunting reality. And so the "indiscretions" piled up: How Harry was famously photographed wearing a Nazi uniform for a costume party. How he was photographed cupping the breast of a female TV presenter. How he uttered a racial slur while teasing a fellow army cadet from Pakistan. This prince more than most needed extra attention and as the events in Las Vegas show though he needed it, he didn't get it. Will what ensued hurt the dynasty? No way. For Harry was indulging himself in ways every English mate would understand, do whenever he could, and envy. It was a case of "that lucky dog" and a lascivious wink. But what of Her Majesty the Queen? Surely she had something to say on the matter? Not necessarily, for I suspect she realizes her own responsibility in the matter of her handsome, dashing, most humorous grandson, and likes him just the way he is. Any such call she might have made would have contained only the most mild slap on the wrist, thus: "Harry, really...." "Yes, Grandmama." "Try not to be so trusting." "Of course, Grandmama." "And assume there are always cameras present." "You're right, Grandmama". "And do keep your clothes on, dear Harry." "You have my word, Grandmama." And that, this time, was that. But of course both knew he couldn't keep it. Wanted: a good woman. The solution? A good woman, of course, pretty in the English rose way, and above all someone who would understand and love him for himself. His elder brother, someday to be king, found such a beloved. With luck, and fewer trips to Las Vegas, Harry will find his, too. Until then, we must anticipate and expect more such indiscretions and misadventures splashed on the world's tabloids, giving us the opportunity to tsk tsk, disapprove, and, above all else, enjoy the discomfiture and witlessness of a prince of the blood royal whose ancestor was once our puissant lord and king. It pleases us to see how far the mighty have fallen and hope to see how further still they may yet fall. |
