Royal Wedding Black-Out

Lindsey, in the brilliant Clybourne Park, the caricature of the liberal movement, utters the magic words that are indignantly sputtered when middle class Britain say something that could even be marginally interpreted as prejudiced: “But …half of my friends are black!”


These soothsaying words surreptitiously say the unsaid. I couldn’t possibly be guilty of thinking that those teenage boys sitting outside of the cornershop are in a gang, because half of my friends are black; I couldn’t possibly be racist when I say a tennis player looks like a golliwog because half of my friends are black; I couldn’t possibly be insular and narrow-minded, because half of my friends are black. It is an uncomfortable exclamation that is usually uttered in response to a pregnant cause, after some off-colour (pun intended) remark.

So maybe it is honest, and even somewhat refreshing, that William and Kate do not make any false claims that they have any black friends or friends of colour. It is slightly disappointing perhaps, given Diana’s friendship with Dodi Al Fayed, William’s declaration that his heart is in Africa, Kate’s family holidays to St. Vincent and even more to the point, the fact that the Boujis-Mahiki-Kitts set is increasingly international, replete with Arab wealth. Surely Wills and Haz would have rubbed shoulders with others outside of their “set”?

Buoyed perhaps by recent all-inclusive directives, the British media took this task on inflicting diversity on the Royal Wedding upon themselves: BBC World Service’s coverage was fronted by black and Asian newsreaders, much ado was made of the fact that the footsman to the Queen was a black American (why is it an honour for a black man to be the Queen’s servant instead of her equal, even if he is the top servant?) and the lone black chorister was zoomed in upon and given special attention. Black people played “Spot the Black” on Facebook and Twitter. Fact was that any persons of colour who featured in the audience were the Ambassadors and representatives (and their wives) of the Commonwealth jurisdictions, and the odd spouse or partner of a local politician or celebrity. I was impressed though, that Boris Johnson’s wife, Marina Wheeler, who is half-Indian, proudly wore her salwa khameez with pride- who would have expected Boris the ultra conservative to be the poster-child for integrationist Britain at this “last bastion” of Englishness?

The fact that there were hardly any black people at the Royal Wedding seems to come as a surprise to our friends across the pond where affirmative action propels persons of colour (rightfully or wrongfully) into the glistening parapets of upper society, although I don’t recall Chelsea Clinton’s wedding being a Benetton advert either. I hazard to say that in spite of the increasing international outlook of boarding schools these days, it is a rare thing to find persons of colour whose parents had the funds to ensure that they went to exactly the right boarding schools (Eton, Marlborough), maintained the right hobbies (skiing, riding, polo), vacationed in the right resorts (Courchevel), partied in the right private members; clubs (Raffles, Public) and lived in the right postcodes (Sloane Square, Kensington, Chelsea). Getting into those sets is difficult enough, getting into the royal enclosure within that circle would have required not just wisteria type social climbing but the tenacity and determination of the first man heading to Everest.

William and Kate’s whitewash wedding may not be politically correct, but it is at least honest. That’s just not how they roll. And that’s fine. I was more taken aback that Posh and Becks were invited and President Obama and the last two Prime Ministers were not. There might still be hope-maybe Harry will bring home native Zimbabwean Chinekwa, instead of Chelsy?