We longstanding residents of Oxfordshire have had a lot to put up with in recent years. First, there were the Beckhams with their faux flat-cap invasion of honey stone Great Tew and queasy talk of ‘Golden Beez’ honey. Then came Hollywood proper in the form of Ellen de Generes in her quest for ‘Engerland’: a Frankenstein vision of romcom The Holiday and indeterminate fantasies about the Old World. Last, came Maga as American Vice President J.D. Vance’s motorcade howled through the village lanes of Dean last summer. But frankly, we ‘aint seen nothing yet.
Rumour has it that Harry and Meghan may take up residence in our benighted county, thereby finishing us off for good. Close to London, jammed with hedge fund managers, and with a plethora of members-only ‘clubs’ (Soho Farmhouse, Estelle Manor) to boot, Oxfordshire presents itself as the ideal location for the publicity-shy Sussexes. Meghan, we know, likes the idea of rural domesticity and will need space to grow (and photograph) her jam collection from the privacy of a large, gated rectory. Harry, having put up with the indignities of soulless Montecito for some years, will be keen to be back in with the Old Chin Guard – for the banter, of course, but also the polo at Kirtlington Park and the hunt (Old Berks perhaps). Where better for the Duke of Sussex to plonk himself than in a county that abuts Daddy in Gloucestershire, Uncle Charlie in Northamptonshire and disgraced cousin Princess Beatrice with her simpering sidekick Edo Mapelli-Mozzi in the Cotswolds proper? Only a quick whizz in the Defender in any direction, and Harry will be back in the bosom of his family. If, that is, he is invited.
