In a stunning blow to the House of Glücksburg’s already wobbly moral compass, the stepson of Norway’s Crown Princess has been convicted of rape. A dark cloud over the fjords, no doubt. But fear not, dear reader, for across the North Sea, the British monarchy sits resplendent in its own special brand of unearned righteousness, looking down its collective nose with the sort of smugness usually reserved for a man who’s just found a tenner in his winter coat.
Let us be clear: the British royals have not been convicted of anything recently. That’s the bar now, isn’t it? They haven’t been caught on tape using racial slurs (that we know of), haven’t been charged with sexual assault (that we can prove), and haven’t been forced to issue a statement about ‘historical conduct’ that would make a Victorian brothel blush. They are, in short, standing apart with all the dignity of a plaster saint in a cathedral of sin.
But oh, how the bar has lowered. Once upon a time, a monarch was expected to lead armies, cure scrofula, and not spend their twilight years flogging memoirs to the highest bidder. Now, mere absence from a criminal dock is considered a triumph of royal virtue. ‘Look at us,’ the Palace seems to cry, ‘we are not currently being sentenced for aggravated rape! Huzzah!’
Meanwhile, in Oslo, a young man with a bloodline that’s basically a CVS receipt of European royal intermarriage has been found guilty of a crime so vile it would make a viking blush. The details are, as is customary, squalid and predictable: power, privilege, and a shocking lack of consequences until now. The Norwegian king, a man who cycles to work and looks like your friendly local postman, must now grapple with the fact that his family’s prestige has been shattered by a step-grandson’s depravity.
But back to Britain, where the real business of maintaining the illusion of moral superiority carries on apace. The Windsors have perfected the art of doing nothing while looking like they’re doing something. They stand on balconies, wave at crowds, and occasionally cut a ribbon. When scandal brews, they circle the wagons, issue a statement through a flak jacket, and wait for the next news cycle to wash it away. And it always does. Because what’s a little colonial guilt or a dead princess compared to a Norwegian royal actually going to prison?
And let us not forget the delicious irony: the British monarchy’s ‘dignity’ is largely built on a foundation of not being caught. It’s the dignity of the well-heeled solicitor who knows where the bodies are buried but keeps his mouth shut for the retainer. It’s the dignity of a family that has, over centuries, perfected the art of sidestepping accountability with a smile and a stiff upper lip.
So yes, while Norway’s royal family faces the music in a courtroom, the Windsors stand aloof, polishing their tiaras and tutting at the continentals. They have, for now, escaped the stain of a rape conviction. But let’s not pretend that this makes them noble. It makes them lucky. And in the game of royal survival, luck is the only family heirloom that matters.
As for the victim in Norway: she will likely never see justice that feels real. The monarchy will apologise, the prince will go to prison, and the tabloids will move on. But the stench of entitlement will linger over Oslo like a fog. And in London, the same fog has settled over Buckingham Palace, only here it’s perfumed with cologne and denial.
So raise a gin, if you must, to the British monarchy’s latest achievement: They didn’t do it. Not this time. Not yet. And in a world of endless royal rot, that’s apparently cause for a national holiday.
