In a development that has royal watchers reaching for the smelling salts and legal eagles sharpening their talons, Norway's crown princess's son has been clapped in irons ahead of his rape verdict. Yes, you heard that correctly. The young man with a bloodline bluer than a frozen fjord is now residing in a cell rather than a palace, while UK legal observers peer over the North Sea like peeping Toms at a scandalous orgy of justice.
One must ask: is this a triumph of egalitarian jurisprudence or a spectacular own goal by the Norwegian monarchy? The lad, whose name escapes me because frankly, who cares about the nomenclature of the idle rich, has been deemed too flighty to remain at large while the courts deliberate his fate. The prosecution, no doubt, argued that his royal status might grant him access to a private jet and a swift exit to a non-extradition paradise. The judge, presumably a staunch republican, disagreed.
Meanwhile, the UK legal observers, a flock of vultures in pinstripes, have descended upon Oslo to ‘monitor proceedings’. This is a phrase that translates roughly to ‘gawk at foreign dysfunction while pretending we don't have our own rotting justice system’. These observers, likely funded by some trust fund or another, will file reports that will be filed away and forgotten. But the real theatre is in the courtroom, where a young man's liberty hangs by a thread woven from privilege and presumption.
Let us not forget the victim, lost in the cacophony of royal scandal. Her voice is a whisper against the roar of tabloid headlines. The boy, after all, is the grandson of a king. He is the embodiment of a system that has long outlived its usefulness, a relic kept alive by tourists and the desperate need for something to gossip about over afternoon tea.
I propose a more direct approach. Let the verdict be delivered by a panel of commoners selected for their cynicism and love of cheap gin. If he is guilty, sentence him to a lifetime of menial labour, perhaps cleaning the Oslo Opera House with a toothbrush. If innocent, exile him to a remote island with a library of Ibsen plays and no Wi-Fi.
But such sense is too much to hope for. Instead, we will have a trial. We will have appeals. We will have pontificating pundits and hand-wringing editorials. And through it all, the crown princess will smile a brittle smile, her son's future in the hands of a system that treats princes and paupers with the same clumsy gavel.
So raise a glass of Norwegian aquavit, or better yet, a stiff gin and tonic, to the most absurd soap opera of the season. The boy is in custody. The observers are observing. And the rest of us are left to wonder: what fresh folly will tomorrow bring?
