In a shocking turn of events that has sent ripples through the gilded fishbowl of European nobility, Norway’s crown prince’s son has been remanded in custody pending a verdict on charges that would make even a hardened alley cat blush. The British royals, ever vigilant and with nothing better to do than polish their tiaras and speculate on the sexual peccadilloes of their Scandinavian cousins, have been monitoring the situation with the kind of morbid fascination usually reserved for a particularly gruesome episode of *The Crown*. I can almost hear Prince Charles muttering into his organic, free-range tea, ‘At least our lot only dabbled in Nazi salutes and dodgy party photographs.’
Let us begin with the facts, or as close to them as I can get through the gin-splattered prism of journalism. Marius Borg Høiby, the 27-year-old son of Crown Prince Haakon and stepson of the future queen, has been arrested on suspicion of rape, a charge he denies with the fervour of a man who has spent too many summers sailing fjords and not enough time learning about consent. The alleged incident, which I won’t sully my keyboard by detailing, apparently occurred in a Oslo apartment after a night of Viking-level drinking. The prosecution, never ones to miss a chance to tarnish a royal, argue that Høiby ‘showed gross negligence’ – a phrase that might as well be the family motto of the Norwegian monarchy, given their penchant for marrying commoners and embracing socialist ideals.
But it’s the British royals’ reaction that truly tickles the funny bone. Buckingham Palace, in a statement so tight-lipped it could have been written by a mime, said they were ‘aware of the situation’ and ‘monitoring developments with interest.’ Translation: The Windsors have their binoculars out, their gin and tonics poured, and are absolutely champing at the bit to see if this scandal will finally knock their own ‘problematic patriarch’ off the front pages. After all, Prince Andrew’s ‘car crash’ interview is still fresh in the public’s mind, and what better way to distract from a rotting corpse in your own closet than by pointing at a fire in the neighbour’s house?
The Norwegian legal system, meanwhile, is doing its usual dance of glacial deliberation. Høiby will remain in custody until the verdict, which is expected to drop sometime after the next millennium. His lawyers, no doubt billing by the hour, argue that the prince’s son is a ‘victim of media persecution’ – a claim so laughable it nearly made me choke on my cocktail. I wonder, will the British royals send a care package? A nice tin of biscuits, perhaps, with a note reading, ‘We’ve all been there. Cheerio, old chap.’
But let’s not forget the absurdity of it all. Hereditary princes, consensual encounters, and the never-ending saga of toffs behaving badly. In a world where real news – war, pestilence, economic collapse – demands our attention, we instead fixate on the sex lives of the entitled. As I drain my glass and prepare for another round, I can’t help but think: The monarchy is a pantomime, and we are all the idiots throwing money at the performers. The Norwegian prince’s son may or may not be guilty, but one thing is certain: the British royals are having the time of their lives watching the show.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to file this story from the comfort of my local pub, where the gin is cheap and the morals are even cheaper. God save the King, and all that jazz.
