| Bring on Madame Defarge |
28 July 2003
|
James Hewitt Lowers TV Bar
Britain's Channel Four TV network hit a new low last Thursday with the broadcast of "Confessions of a
Cad." Normally, a title like this offers a look-back-in-anger, dark comedy sort of evening's entertainment,
but regrettably, this program brought only indigestion. James Hewitt, who committed serial adultery with
the late Princess of Wales, tried to squeeze an extra fifteen minutes of fame from the world by having her
lover letters to him read aloud for broadcast. “I’m a complete shit,” Hewitt said in the documentary. One
admires his understatement.
Diana, Princess of Wales, was just another Sloane Ranger who managed to luck out in the game of royal
politics. Had those around the monarch been a bit more particular, especially in their choice of a British
subject to breed the next generation of royals, her middle-class character trapped in an upper-class
environment and less-than-sterling media skills would not have undermined the institution as they
ultimately did. Her untimely passing was sad, but it was hardly an event of historic proportions. She had
given Britain two boys, and therefore, had done her duty. Her affair with Mr. Hewitt was of interest then
only as a question related to the succession. Now, it is of no matter at all.
Yet, Channel Four ponied up perfectly good money to let Mr. Hewitt be what he described himself as
being. Also, Diana is shown to have been a dotty, rather empty-headed child. She wrote to him while he
was serving in the 1991 Gulf War, “Boy oh boy, does the earth shake when I get a letter from my desert
friend, screams of delight, tears, you name it. Demented female on the loose, that’s for sure.” A married
woman with any sense would never commit such blithering to paper, not even when address to her
husband.
What appalls here is that the individuals involved, including HRH the Prince of Wales, were not
particularly wonderful back when they were important. The program last week merely showed that the
only thing more pathetic than someone who is famous for being famous is a has-been of that variety.
Then again, the Kensington Review has never been impressed with the Greco-German bourgeoisie
that makes up the House of Windsor, from the founding wee-German lairdy to the current inhabitant of
Buckingham Palace and her brood.