In a development that has all the hallmarks of a lurid Nordic noir, the son of Norway’s crown princess was today clapped in irons, or at least given a stern word and a cell, pending a verdict on charges of rape. The British embassy, with the eager officiousness of a nanny peering through a keyhole, has announced it is ‘monitoring the trial’. Because nothing says ‘diplomatic necessity’ like rubbernecking at a royal scandal.
Let us parse this succulent morsel of tabloid fodder. A young man whose blood runs blue, or at least a very pale aquamarine, stands accused of the most heinous of crimes. The Norwegian justice system, a marvel of Scandinavian efficiency, moves at a glacial pace toward a verdict. Meanwhile, His Majesty’s government dispatches its finest observers to ensure that, should the scion of a foreign throne be convicted, the world’s press will have appropriately framed photographs. This is not justice; this is a theatre of the absurd, with a royal walk-on.
The accused, whose name we shall not repeat lest we pollute our printer with syllables of such concentrated privilege, has already been found guilty in the court of public opinion, a kangaroo court with particularly good posture and an Ikea furniture endorsement. The trial itself is a masterpiece of obfuscation, a legal embroidery so intricate that the truth has been lost in the stitching. Did he or didn’t he? The question is as irrelevant as the price of fish in a post-Brexit economy. What matters is the spectacle: the pale, sweaty visage of a young man who expected to inherit fjords, now facing a future of prison yoga and lukewarm meatballs.
And the British embassy, that bastion of stiff-upper-lip-itude, is ‘monitoring’. Monitoring what, precisely? The temperature of the courtroom? The brand of coffee in the canteen? Or are they there to ensure that, if the verdict goes sour, a diplomatic pouch can be found large enough to smuggle a royal miscreant to a safe house in the Home Counties? The statement reeks of that particular brand of British officiousness that transforms any crisis into an opportunity for a good sit-down and a cup of tea. ‘Monitoring’ means ‘we are doing something’ while doing nothing at all. It is the bureaucratic equivalent of a shrug.
Let us not forget the elephant in the room, or rather the moose in the fjord. The Norwegian monarchy, a constitutional bauble that serves mostly to give the populace someone to blame for bad weather, is now under the microscope. The crown princess, a woman whose face has graced a million postage stamps, must now confront the possibility that her offspring is a monster. Or not. The trial will decide, but the damage to the brand is already done. Norway’s royal family, once a tourist attraction rivaling the Geirangerfjord, is now a cautionary tale about the perils of inbreeding and privilege.
In conclusion, we have a story that has it all: royalty, rape allegations, and the British embassy playing detective. The verdict, when it comes, will be a relief to everyone involved: a chance to move on to the next scandal, the next tragedy, the next tedious iteration of the human condition. Until then, we wait, we watch, and we wonder if the embassy has a good supply of gin to see them through this dark hour.
Barroom reporting by Barnaby Thistlethwaite, gin in hand, on the edge of reason.
