What I have in common with Margaret Thatcher.
I would wear the wrong clothes for a weekend at Balmoral Castle too. And I’m dreadful at parlor games.
This is the midweek what-to-watch edition of Snarky Senior — the newsletter from Erica Manfred, which you can read about here. If you like it and don’t want to miss an issue, you can get it in your inbox by subscribing.
Margaret Thatcher, as played by the brilliant Gillian Anderson in the addictive Netflix series, The Crown, is one of those historical enigmas that defy explanation.
How did she happen? How did this cold, ruthless woman who was not only not a feminist but had no sympathy for working women or the working class even though she came from them, overcome the barriers against women in power and wind up leader of the most influential--if no longer most powerful--country in Europe? Much less maintain that power for 12 years?
The Crown does not explain this mystery, but it does make Thatcher a lot more relatable by sending her to Balmoral Castle in Scotland to play with the royals for a weekend. She may be able to intimidate the House of Lords but not actual lords…or ladies.
In the funniest episode in this season of the marvelous Crown, Thatcher shows up at the country castle of the royal family totally unprepared for the bizarre habits of the aristocracy when at play. It’s been said that the queen loved her horses more than her children. She was at home only at Balmoral where she could go riding, or dress in boots and a babushka and tromp through the woods with a gun. Thatcher thinks she’s visiting a genteel country house so she shows up in her Sunday best with high heeled pumps not realizing she’s expected to slog through the mud. Then she tries to keep up with the Windsors during an idiotic parlor game where they repeat nonsense syllables while pressing burnt corks into their faces.
Thatcher is hopeless at being silly. She doesn’t seem to have a lighthearted bone in her body. But I softened towards her during this scene.
Who among us hasn’t landed in a snobbish setting where we’re totally out of place and don’t know the rules. Having lived in New York City for years I occasionally hobnobbed with the hoi polloi – mostly by accident when I got invited to a party in some penthouse because I was young, female and had a few glamorous friends. I would gawk and try to fit in but I knew it was hopeless. I was still the child my parents took to lunch at the Plaza for a birthday lunch and had to shush when I loudly proclaimed “this is such a fancy place.”
I was bemused to discover from this season that the English aristocracy was the model for the rich WASP family of an old boyfriend of mine. I couldn’t understand their preference for shabby rugs, Ford Focuses and bad food. Now I see where they were coming from. The true aristocracy is above noticing mice running across the floor or peeling paint in the Palace.
I’m still trying to figure out the world’s everlasting fascination with English royalty. Other countries have royalty too, but no one cares what the Queen of Denmark is up to unless one of her progeny marry into British royalty which never happens anymore. Heaven forbid British royals should marry another royal. They’re bound and determined to marry the least appropriate mates possible.
I think the appeal of the royals lies in their exquisite contradictions. Here they are—especially the queen--snobbish, starchy, anachronistic, contemptuous of us plebians, rigidly sticking to the etiquette of a vanished era, determined to live in the past, despite being plunked into the modern information age against their will, a time when anyone can say anything about anyone and get away with it.
Diana knew that and took advantage of it. Megan Markle is an expert at it.
Everyone but the queen knows it’s a losing battle. She has the unique bad luck of trying to maintain the family’s image in a country with the most devious, scurrilous, scandal-obsessed press corps in the English speaking world. The British press’s appetite for gossip is bottomless, and if there isn’t any gossip to report, they’ll create it.
This has been a recipe for the Shakespearean tragedy of Diana’s death, plus probably the most embarrassing story in the history of royalty anywhere ever—the recording of Prince Charles telling Camilla he wants to be her tampon. UGH! How do you recover from that?
The only recovery is the short attention span of the public and the long lifespans of the royal family. Outliving your enemies is the best revenge—all is forgotten, if not forgiven.
But then there’s that upstart Netflix to make a mockery of your efforts. Prince Charles and Camilla were finally living down their infamy when The Crown brought it back up again. They had to shut off comments on their Twitter account because they were getting trashed yet again for mistreating poor Diana.
I can’t wait for next season with Diana’s denouement and a queen played by Imelda Staunton. Will they include the tampon recording? I sure hope so. Stay tuned.
Spread the snark!
If you know someone who doesn’t take themselves too seriously and might enjoy some snark in their inbox once or twice a week, forward this newsletter their way. You can subscribe (and link to it) here. You can follow me on Twitter here (Don’t expect much. I hate Twitter), and friend me on Facebook here (I love Facebook. It’s where we older folks hang out). Email me anytime at Askerica@gmail.com. Suggestions and feedback welcome.