Meghan Markle is Pretty Much Pissing Off Everyone at Wimbledon and it's Magnificent
I don’t hate tennis. I don’t follow it. I don’t watch it. But I do understand the appeal. My beguiling Irish Rose will stay riveted to the last couple of rounds of a Grand Slam women’s event like it’s an HGTV show about couples shopping for houses, while I walk through the room without breaking stride to go do anything else. But I don’t judge or object. As Mike & Mike used to say, what makes us different is what makes us so much fun!
One thing my beloved does like that I DO judge, because I legitimately, aggressively hate it, is the British Royalty. Believe me, I’ll be the first to admit I obsess over a lot of inconsequential nonsense. (And I’ve got the hours wasted on YouTube watching “Doctor Who” and “Stranger Things” fan theories to prove it.) But I’m just simply not wired to give a rat’s taint about a family that’s supposed to have superior bloodlines and the weddings of pretend fairy tale princesses.
But oddly enough, mix Wimbledon tennis and the Royals together like is happening right now, and I can have a very enjoyable couple of weeks. They’re like two inert elements that somehow when you mix them together, create a very active and entertaining compound. Like how LSD was invented, only it won’t have me tripping balls while listening to shitty music.
In this case, the most reactive chemical was, naturally, the American. You might not naturally assume that a hot, intelligent and successful woman and brand new mother would be the skunk at the grass courts lawn party. But then you’d be underestimating the ability of everyone who loves the Royals to be offended by everything. And there is a world of wrong going on on all sides. Which is what makes it so much bloody fun.
Let’s start with the fact that she committed an atrocity the likes of which no major sporting event has witnessed since the Montreal Screw Job or the last 200 or so soccer riots, just by the way she showed up. Her crime?
Jeans.
Source – Meghan Markle’s low-key outing to see friend Serena Williams play tennis at Wimbledon has turned into one huge drama … and, now, a Wimbledon official just called her a “nightmare” for committing a fashion faux pas at the games.
For the occasion, Meghan kept it casual in a white and black pinstripe blazer with a T-shirt underneath and jeans. Apparently, it’s against etiquette to wear denim in the All England Club members’ area where Meghan was sitting, so a lot of people are in an uproar.
The Times UK spoke to several on-lookers at the event, and one official said: “It was a nightmare, she was a nightmare.”
Oh. The. Humanity. Imagine the horror. It’s not enough that Great Britain had to endure two World Wars, various regional conflicts and acts of terror too numerable to count. Now this? They say there’ll always be an England. But I have my doubts they’ll be able to survive someone sneaking the Weapon of Mass Destruction that is ridiculously overpriced denim into the All England Club’s Royal Box. Thoughts and prayers.
But before we pull a hammy jumping to take Meghan’s side, there’s this:
Source – [A]s excited fans stole a photo of the Royal, her bodyguards got involved and told them to stop.
One man who was taking a selfie in front of her was told to stop by her security detail, even though he wasn’t actually taking a picture of her.
To review: Meghan Markle is married to a prince. That makes her Lady Duchess of Princessshire, or something. Meaning she works for the public. OK, “works” is exactly the wrong word. She lives off the public. She’s on the dole. A member now of the Western world’s most affluent welfare family. (I know some of them have served in the military and put themselves on the front lines when they didn’t have to; they obviously get a pass.) So she accepts the money and the health care and staff of maids and nannies and the castles. Not to mention the free seats to go watch tennis. She just doesn’t want the people paying the bills to be taking pictures. That is the kind of thing you only see from monarchs and dictators.
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And this is a woman who, before choosing this lifestyle was in Hollywood, where success is measured in how many photos your worshipers take of you. Bear in mind, this isn’t a wolf pack of paparazzi swarming her when she’s taking her baby to a park or something. These are Wimbledon fans. The most gentile and well-behaved subsection of the Earth’s population. And she’s got her security detail manhandling a guy for pointing his phone in her direction, even though his camera is reversed to take a shot of himself. Imagine for a hot second some politician in the U.S. trying that. The President sits in the owner’s box at a Redskins game or some senator sits next to the dugout at Yankee Stadium and the Secret Service orders everyone in the park not to point cameras at him or her. It’s not just unthinkable, it’s laughable.
But the shrill craziness does not end there. Not by a damned sight. For some reason, John McEnroe’s ex-wife Tatum O’Neal – my first childhood crush ever since she pitched for the Bad News Bears and then when she made “Little Darlings” when I was 16 where she and Kristi McNichol were going to summer camp and made a bet about who could lose their V-card first – was invited onto British TV to dish with Piers Morgan about the monstrous things Meghan has done:
It’s the perfect confluence of events. Sports. Classism. Ugly Americanism. Show business. Bitchiness. Princesses. Pop culture. Jeans. And then weirdly thrown in, the girl that 12 year old me fell in love with when she played air hockey against Kelly Leak and told him if she won, he’d play for the Bears and if he won, “Name it. …” jump-starting my puberty. What a time to be alive. Just know that when a tennis tournament is ruined by an American princess that all the Brits hate, we all win Wimbledon.