"Marriage: a friendship recognised by the police."
- Robert Louis Stevenson
In my long and relatively interesting life, I've been privileged to observe many of the great romances up close (Burton and Taylor, Plath and Hughes, Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love, etc), but few have touched my heart the way the whirlwind romance between Harry and Meghan has. Indeed, I consider it a great honour to have been there at the beginning and, as you will discover, a key witness in the consolidation of their love through marriage. After all, what is marriage if not the ultimate expression of the most beautiful words in the English language: 'I love you' ('Oh well, if you're paying...' is a pretty good combination too, but it doesn't get you laid as often).
I hereby offer up these pieces as a tribute to both the beautiful couple and Britain's ruling family, so that readers in other countries who perhaps don't have a monarchy or, more regrettably, aren't British can understand the true glory of love. Read on, peasants, and grow.
* * * * *
7th November, 2017
"For God's sake, Harry!" I shout, draining the saucepan over the sink. "If I've told you once, I've told you a million times: if you fill it up to the brim the water's going to bubble onto the hob."
"Yah, soz, Rich," he says, burying his hands awkwardly into his pockets. "Not up on all this cooking-type stuff. Can't we just order out for a pizza or something?"
"I've seen you eat pizza, Harry. Do you seriously think it's going to be romantic proposing to her with tomato sauce smeared all over your face?"
"Well, no..."
"Right. Now shut up and let's get on with it, yeah? What time did you put the chicken on?"
"Put it on what?"
Suddenly a car pulls into the driveway outside Nottingham Cottage. Harry flies into a panic; he stalks up and down the kitchen, wringing his hands and gibbering about being the short, ginger one nobody likes. I do my best to calm him down, offering him a glass of Lucozade and giving his ugly, puckish face a bloody good slap. When he comes to his senses I straighten his collar, wipe his brow and pat his chest reassuringly.
"Go get her, champ," I tell him. "Remember: just be cool, okay?"
"You got it!" he says. He takes a deep breath and opens the front door.
"Hey..." Meghan purrs, looking resplendent in the crisp November night.
"Will you marry me?" Harry asks.
"Jesus, Harry!" I yell. "Let her get her fucking coat off first."
"Yah, soz, Rich!" he says. He motions for her to come in and closes the door. Meghan looks over at me and smiles sweetly.
"Good evening, Miss Markle," I nod, handing her a glass of champagne. As she takes the glass our fingers gently touch: just for a moment, but long enough to register a surge of possibilities.
"Mmm... Something smells good," she says quickly, turning to Harry as she slips off her Christian Louboutin stilletos.
"Yah, it's Lynx Gold," Harry says, puffing out his chest.
"I think Miss Markle means the food, Your Highness," I reply, masking my contempt with class deference. "Harry thought perhaps chicken in blue cheese sauce tonight, ma'am."
"Sounds great," Meghan says, allowing herself a stolen glance in my direction as Harry fires up his Xbox.
"Yah, Rich's a real wiz with this catering lark!" he says, mowing down a whole batallion of Nazis. "Did you know if you fill a saucepan up to the brim it bubbles onto the hob? Amazing!"
"Well, anyway," I continue, ignoring shit-for-brains, "You just sit back and enjoy your evening, Miss Markle; don't worry, I'll take care of everything." As I walk back to the kitchen I turn my head surreptitiously to catch Meghan's gaze once more.
"Er... Rich, can I have a word?" Harry says, pausing his game and following after me like a Border Collie at his master's heel. He pushes the door to and fixes me with a purposeful look. "You haven't forgotten the, erm... Well, you know..." he asks, eyes shifting cautiously towards the crack in the door. I reach into my inside breast pocket and take out the ring.
"Just as you asked for," I tell him. "I picked it up from Cleave and Co. this morning."
"Er... no," he whispers. "I meant the... [Coughs]"
I roll my eyes, reach into my trouser pocket and hand him the packet of three.
"Nice one, Rich!" he exclaims, bumping his fist against my shoulder. "Should I put it on now or later?"
* * * * *
18th May, 2018
We watch with amusement as Harry staggers around the dance floor, bottle of Stella in hand, slur-rapping along to the sound system.
"When the Prince in the crib, ma / Drop it like it's hot / Drop it like it's hot / Drop it like it's hot / When the paps tryin'-a git at one / Drop it like it's hot / Drop it like it's hot..."
"Little bro's totally bladdered!" Prince William says, knocking back his fifth double vodka and coke of the evening.
"You gotta be to dance to this piece of shit," Kanye West snorts.
"I think it's dreadfully unfair of you to diss Mr Doggy Dogg like that," former Prime Minister John Major says. "I think he's the illest mothersucker in the hood, bar none."
"What the fuck do you know, pencil dick?" Kanye snarls, rising from his chair. "Let me tell you something: that pussy Blair was twice the man you are..."
"Whoa!" I yell, slapping a hand on Kanye's shoulder. "All right, mate - we've all had a few, yeah? Besides, this is Harry's night; we don't want to ruin it, do we?"
"Whatever," Kanye says, slumping himself down and sipping his pint of stout.
"What's with you, dude?" Wills asks. "You've been getting on John's case all night."
"Yes," Major says. "And if I may say so, it's really starting to get on my man-breasts."
"Is it this slavery thing-?" I offer, "Because if it is, we've been through this and you agreed you were being a twat."
"It's not that," Kanye says. "I just don't want to see my little buddy get hurt, is all."
"Why would he get hurt?" Wills says incredulously. "Meghan's a fine filly!"
"That's just it, bro: she can have any man she wants," Kanye ventures before pointing at Harry, now pelvic-thrusting along to "My Humps". "So what's she doing with that red-haired bitch?"
"What're you trying to say?" I ask testily.
"Well, I ain't saying she's a gold digger," Kanye replies, casually adjusting one of his cufflinks, "but she ain't messing with no broke Windsor..."
"That's absolute bollocks," I tell him, rolling up my sleeves in anticipation of landing one right on the smug bastard's face. Suddenly Harry stumbles over to the table, panting like crazy as he rudely takes a swig of my Scotch.
"Best stag do ever, guys!" he bellows, punching the air. "You want to stay here or move on somewhere else?"
"I think here's probably best," Wills says, winking at me. I look over to the bar and scratch my nose. The barmaid nods, and a minute later a frumpy, middle-aged woman in a raincoat approaces the table.
"'Arry Windsor?" she asks in a flat, Brummie accent.
"Yah?" Harry croaks. She breaks into a big smile and throws off the raincoat, revealing a pair of nipple tassels and a G-string. The guys holler and stamp their feet as she launches into a heartfelt tribute to the happy couple, accompanied by a suitably sexy dance.
"For your wedding day, oodles of luck / From your bro, Grandpa Philly and Chuck /Your love may it sparkle / When you marry Miss Markle / And we 'ope she's a really great f-[Last word inaudible over drunken cheers and chanting]."
* * * * *
19th May, 2018 - 12:55pm
"Ah can't get you outta mah head, Lord!" Reverend Michael Curry intones as snores ripple and echo through the hallowed hall of St. George's Chapel. "Your lovin' is all Ah think about!"
I get this is the biggest gig this guy's ever had, or ever will have outside of Cable TV, but milking it like this is just shameless. Thankfully, the Archbishop of Canterbury seems to recognise this too, as he slowly extends his crook behind Reverend Curry's neck.
"All you need is love, mah brothers and sisters! All you need is lo-Arrrggggh!"
The Archbishop takes the stage, surveys the snoozing congregation and bangs his crook against the pulpit. The assembled guests jolt from their slumber, blinking rapidly as the Most Reverend Mr Welby starts the ceremony proper. Harry and Wills leap to their feet, taking their place to the right of the Archbishop. The church organist delivers a sepulchral rendition of "The Real Slim Shady" as Meghan and the Prince of Wales march awkwardly to the head of the aisle. She looks over at me, eyes widening with dawning realisation.
"Dearly beloved," the Archbishop begins, "we are gathered here today in the eyes of God to witness the marriage of Harry Heineken Windsor and Meghan Flava Flav Markle. Since we're overrunning somewhat due to unforeseen circumstances [he flashes a dirty look at Reverend Curry, now bound and gagged in the vestry], and because kick-off is just over an hour away, I think it best if I just blitz this. Who has the ring?"
Harry unceremoniously nudges Wills in the ribs.
"Er... Yah, I do."
"Pass it to the groom, please."
Wills hands the ring to Harry.
"Place the ring on her finger."
Harry takes Meghan's hand and stares at it anxiously.
"Third finger, Your Highness," the Archbishop whispers helpfully.
"Er... Is that including the thumb?" Harry asks.
"No, Your Highness."
"Thanks, Bish!" Harry says, roughly sliding the ring on Meghan's finger.
"Do you, Harry Heineken Windsor, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love, honour and obey her?"
"Every bloody night!" Harry snorts, making an obscene gesture to the guys in the congregation, prompting a boisterous cheer.
"And do you, Meghan Flava Flav Markle, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? [Checks his watch] To do all the things I asked him?"
"Sure, why not?" Meghan sighs.
"Now this is the point where I have to ask if anyone has any just reason why these two may not be joined in holy matrimony," the Archbishop chuckles, "but I don't think that really counts in this case, does it?"
I stare at my feet, conscious that someone may be looking over at me, waiting for an answer.
"In that case," Welby continues as I close my eyes tightly, "I now pronounce you man and wife."
"GET IN!" Harry cries, doing a little victory dance as Meghan (so I'm informed) makes the 'call me' sign at Oprah Winfrey.
* * * * *
19th May, 2018 - 10:40pm
"For the last time, woman," the Duke of Edinburgh yells at Her Majesty, "I was not making eyes at that prostitute!"
"That's my mother!" the Duchess of Cambridge screams, breaking down in tears as Wills takes her in his arms. I knew it would be a mistake having a second reception: the booze and the summer heat's really starting to take its toll.
"How dare you talk about my wife like that!" Michael Middleton shouts, jabbing a finger in Prince Philip's direction.
"What's it to you, you bloody peasant?" Philip retorts. "You're only here 'cos me good-for-nothing grandson got your daughter up the junction."
"I say, Gramps," Harry burps, raising his head from a champagne bucket, "That's totally uncool, yah?"
"You keep out of this, you illegitimate little shitehawk," Philip snaps. "You're just like your bloody mother, chasing after that Paki shopkeeper's son..."
I decide to step outside for a much-needed cigarette. I pass Her Majesty, sat blubbing on one of the concrete toadstools, and make my way towards the rock pool at the foot of the garden. I sit down on an ornamental bench and go to light up a Marlboro Gold when the flint on my lighter jams.
"Fuck it," I mutter, and chuck the damn thing into the pond.
"I thought you'd given up?" a voice suddenly says behind me. I turn to see Meghan, the moonlight making her diamond tiara twinkle like a crown of stars.
"Nah, you know me," I shrug. "No self-control."
"Really-?" she smiles, sitting down next to me. She holds out a zipper lighter.
"Well, almost none," I reply. I lean towards the flame and take a long drag before expelling a thick, satisfying column of smoke.
"Thank you for paying for all this," Meghan says. "It's been a wonderful day."
"Oh, it was nothing, really: Vladimir gave me the money. By the way, he says if you're ever in Moscow feel free to drop by."
We stare at the rock pool for a moment, silent and still in our own bubble universe.
"Do you think it could've worked out?" Meghan says softly. "Between us, I mean."
"Never really thought about it," I lie, taking another drag. "There's no point wondering what could've been; you've got to live in the here and now. And all I know is there's a guy back there probably honking his guts up who really needs you."
She nods, wiping a tear from her eye.
"I won't forget you," she says suddenly, leaning over to kiss my cheek before walking slowly back to Frogmere House. I sigh, breath quick from the tightness in my throat, and dry my eyes. I throw my cigarette into the water, watching it bob and drift before it disappears amongst a tangle reeds.
"Bloody royals," I mutter. I stand up, put on my jacket and set off to find the nearest taxi rank, humming "Someone To Watch Over Me" as a soft breeze gently licks away the summer heat.
