A certain amount of indignation was only to be expected, post-World Cup, about the disparities in the treatment of the men’s and women’s games. Not to get too granular about it, because male footballers get paid so much that sometimes the world runs out of currency and has to top up their pay with panda cubs, and female footballers get paid slightly less than primary school teachers, I definitely expected at least some murmurs about fairness and equality, maybe even the spectacle of a Lioness bringing an equal pay claim to tribunal, which might not succeed but would be fun to watch.
The question I was not expecting was “Where was Prince William at the World Cup final?”, still less to hear it endlessly examined, by news anchors, bigmouths, football pundits and politicians. Who was the angriest, between Jon Sopel, who tweeted: “Happy to accept might be impossible for the PM, given other commitments. But Prince William? Why?” and Piers Morgan, who went in on: “With respect, YRH [Your Royal Highness], you should have got on a plane.”
They speculated so hard and for so long about the likelihood of William attending a men’s World Cup if England had got to the final (It is a certainty, countrymen! Unthinkable that he wouldn’t) that it took a while to unpick what a slippery hypothetical that was. Prince William wasn’t alive the last time that happened. People are extrapolating his behaviour from an event that predated his birth and applying it to a similar event that may never happen, and deciding, nevertheless, that they are absolutely sure what he would do. It seems, I don’t know, a bit bold? And speaking as a self-selected representative of the wokerati, if he had flown to Australia, I would have kvetched about his carbon footprint.
This is what happens when you get into a popularity contest with your brother. Having made the decision to neither complain nor explain, as per his family’s motto, there has been little William could do in the face of Harry’s Californian openness, except exist as a counterpoint, the not-open brother, who hasn’t been to therapy, who probably doesn’t meditate, who doesn’t have problematic feelings, still less tell anyone about them, and hope that public opinion would swing his way. And it has, broadly: he is now the most popular member of the royal family after the departed Queen, though if all the respondents knew they were allowed to stick with the deceased, surely Henry VIII would have got more of a look-in?
Kate of Wales (or whatever), meanwhile, is fourth most popular, after Princess Anne, while Meghan and Harry languish at 11th and 12th respectively. William’s victory as preferred sibling has been pretty resounding, but he has been in this game long enough to know that triumph in it is just the opening of a new nightmare, one in which the populace can rescind their approval at any time, on a whim, and they test this power with fresh objections all the time, just to prove they still have it. There are so many reasons that William might be selected as the face of the oppressive patriarchy, but football isn’t really one of them.
Now that he is on the back foot, he will be ominously aware that the next thing he doesn’t attend has the potential to drag him down further, and the third will turn into a pattern of behaviour, The Prince Who Doesn’t Turn Up to Things. What an easy slide that is to The Prince Who Doesn’t Share the Nation’s Joy or Pain. He will be showing his face to judge cheesecake competitions, while wondering neurotically whether Harry has got the jump on him by going to Crufts.
It is an absolutely poisoned chalice, royalty, and the answer has been obvious for decades: all of you, put yourselves out of your misery and abdicate. Since none of them will do that, the second best idea is to be more Anne. Very private princess – I have no idea what she does and doesn’t attend, only that it’s always headscarf weather.
Zoe Williams is a Guardian columnist
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