In a scandal so Nordic it practically knitted its own woolly jumper of disgrace, the son of Norway’s crown prince has been remanded in custody before his rape verdict. Yes, you heard that correctly. The boy who probably had a silver spoon melted down into a viking helmet is now staring at grey walls and prison porridge, awaiting a judge’s decision on whether he’s a royal pervert or just a monumental prat.
The Norwegian royal family, known for their understated ski jump of dignity, is now careening off the slopes of public opinion into a crevasse of tabloid headlines. It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, unless the tree is a royal oak and the apple is rotten to the core. The lad, whose name I refuse to dignify with repetition, is accused of raping a woman who presumably isn’t impressed by his bloodline.
The court, in a move that reeks of justice rather than aristocracy, decided that he’s enough of a flight risk to warrant a stay in a cell. Not a palace, not a suite at the Grand Hotel, but a proper concrete box with a bed that’s probably seen more action than his. This isn’t just a scandal; it’s a referendum on whether blue blood can buy you a get-out-of-jail-free card.
The answer, it appears, is a resounding ‘nei.’ Meanwhile, the rest of Europe is tutting into its morning coffee, clutching pearls that were probably looted from a colonial past. The monarchy, that quaint relic of hereditary incompetence, is once again showing us why we should all be republicans.
Or at least, why we shouldn’t let the royals have all the fun if they can’t handle the responsibility. So here’s to you, prince of something or other. May you find the prison library has a good selection of crime novels, because you’re about to star in one.
And to the Norwegian people, who probably knew this was coming: maybe it’s time to abolish the whole shebang? Just a thought from a gin-soaked hack who’s tired of watching hereditary dullards make the rest of us feel superior.
