The Royal Correspondent author Alexandra Joel questions our obsession with ‘the Firm’ and reveals her own extraordinary link
As the Sussex circus exposes yet more royal rifts, Alexandra Joel argues our fascination with this all-too-human family is like the ancients’ relationship with the gods.
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Millions around the world are obsessed by the royal family — this week more than ever as the Sussexes’ Oprah interview exposes yet more fractures in “the firm”. ALEXANDRA JOEL’S fascination came from a family friendship that, according to the usual strict rules of society, should never have happened.
Were you obsessed by The Crown? Ever found yourself taking a sneaky look at a magazine featuring the latest pics of Kate and William’s cherubic trio while you’re standing in line at your local supermarket checkout? Or perhaps you surprised yourself by just how strongly you felt about Harry’s startling defection.
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You are not alone. It seems that right around the world, no matter whether we be ardent monarchists or the staunchest of republicans, our fascination with Her Majesty and the tumultuous lives of her various offspring remains undimmed. But why is it that, at a time when technology constantly delivers juicy titbits about an endless conga line of newer celebrities, this enchantment with the British royals persists? What’s their secret?
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That question kept playing on my mind while I was writingThe Royal Correspondent. Just to set the scene, the book is about Blaise Hill, a feisty young journalist from one of Sydney’s toughest neighbourhoods. Dispatched to London in 1960 to report on Princess Margaret’s controversial marriage to wayward photographer Antony Armstrong-Jones, Blaise soon finds herself drawn into a dangerous world of glamour and intrigue.
One popular theory has it that our passionate interest in the Windsors’ activities stems from the fairy-tale nature of their lives. Admittedly, it’s hard not to be dazzled by splendid occasions such as Trooping the Colour or, best of all, a truly over-the-top royal wedding. Yet surely this can’t be the only reason.
It seems to me that the way we relate to the world’s most famous family has much in common with the pleasure the Ancient Greeks took in the lives of their gods and goddesses. The sandal-wearing throngs that gathered at classical temples delighted in the all-too-human foibles – lust, anger, envy, greed – of those superbeings who inhabited a more elevated realm than themselves. Sound familiar?
As it happens, I received an early, up-close-and personal induction into the ways of the Royal Family. This was because my late father, the Hon. Sir Asher Joel, was the mastermind behind so many royal visits to Australia and major state celebrations (including the opening of the Sydney Opera House) that, over the years, a singular relationship developed between him and HM & Co.
Not many kids from the ’burbs grew up as I did, with a mum who, over dinner on board the Royal Yacht Britannia, compared notes with the Queen regarding their respective children’s recent bouts of chicken pox. Then there was the exclusive luncheon party at an English stately home where, shortly before the meal, Princess Margaret sidled over to Dad and saucily invited him to share her own glass of gin and tonic – the minx! I could go on, but you get the idea.
My father’s contact with the Royals went way back to World War II, when both he and Prince Philip served in the navy. One day, after swabbing the decks of his British destroyer, the handsome albeit impecunious lieutenant poured his heart out to Dad.
“I don’t know what I’ll do to earn a living once this is all over,” he moaned, before brightening. “I know. How about becoming my manager?”
What a question to put to a young Aussie bloke, especially one who – just like my book’s heroine – had dragged himself out of inner-city poverty via a career in journalism.
Dad was only fourteen when he began work at The Daily Telegraph. I used to love his tales about clattering typewriters and smoky newsrooms where hard-bitten reporters would bash out accounts of everything from gangland murders to (metaphorical) political assassinations.
My father went on to forge a remarkable life, but somewhere along the line I began wondering: what if he had been born a girl? What vast challenges would that girl have faced, and who might she have become?
That was my starting point for The Royal Correspondent. Take a working-class kid from Australia and put her at close quarters with those at the very pinnacle of British power, right at the dawn of the Swinging Sixties. Add her discovery of a devastating royal scandal. Top up with Christine Keeler, the Profumo Affair, a dash of espionage and some extremely complicated romantic entanglements.
It’s a rich dish, all right. Maybe those Greeks were onto something.
The Royal Correspondent, by Alexandra Joel and published by HarperCollins Australia, is on sale now. Heading from palaces to more humble homes, check out our new Book of the Month, Kelli Hawkins’ Other People’s Houses. Head to booktopia.com.au and enter code HOUSES at checkout to receive 30 per cent off the RRP of $29.99. And come talk books of all types at the Sunday Book Club group on Facebook.
Originally published as The Royal Correspondent author Alexandra Joel questions our obsession with ‘the Firm’ and reveals her own extraordinary link
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