Under the Black Flag

Meet the Markles

I never thought I’d get back to this silly subject for Chronicles ever again, but the Markles—as I now refer to them—have a way of getting our attention, and embarrassing Al Capone in the process. As the Feds were closing in on him, Al was told Chicago was getting too hot and he should move to Canada. “Canada?” growled Capone, “I don’t even know what street that’s on.”

For any of you who, like Capone, have never heard of the place, Canada is a very big country run by an even bigger fool called Trudeau. Now this lucky country also has the Markles, or the royal riffraff, as some embittered old British salts now call them. But let’s not be hasty. Looking back, it seems to me that royal romances have a way of ending up quite badly, even 2,500 years ago.

Old Homer, who started the whole royal soap opera genre, was anything but a fool. He created Helen of Troy as an innocent victim, totally manipulated by bad boy Paris and even by the much-too-proud brothers Agamemnon and Menelaus. I thought of Homer recently when Meghan—though not quite as beautiful a woman as Helen—took center stage and threatened to do to the House of Windsor what the Paris-Helen duet did to the House of Atreus.

As a 1960s zonked-out hippy would say, “Man, this is wild!” A divorced, D-list, 38-year-old, mixed-race actress marries a 35-year-old member of...

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