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 Thirty years later, the British tabloid press appears unsoftened. The morning after the Oprah interview was aired in the U.K., the royal correspondents and pundits—pretty much all white, middle-aged, and caught in a dance to the death with the Firm, as Prince Harry suggested—sprang predictably to vocal life. ITV’s incendiary Piers Morgan has since resigned after backlash over his claims that no one could believe a word that sprang from Meghan’s lips. The Daily Mail’s Richard Kay protested that the Sussexes’ “implication that our island nation is a country where racist attitudes flourish is a travesty,” a statement that may give pause to many of my country’s Black and brown citizens. Might I suggest the artist-filmmaker Steve McQueen’s Small Axe—a magisterial quintet of movies about the so-called Windrush generation of Afro-Caribbean immigrants—as a useful primer? The Empire Windrush landed at Tilbury Docks in 1948, and McQueen’s 2020 oeuvre might be the first time that these stories have been told on the BBC.

I arrived in the Vogue-branded cap that, to my deep mortification, Anna had insisted I wear to discover that there were literally hundreds of royal correspondents and hardened photographers, in addition to my good self, photographer Dewey Nicks, and his assistant, the very existence of whom was considered comical by the rest of the press corps, who soon dubbed us Hewey, Dewey, and Louey. In our caps we did look like a trio of ducklings. We were all marshaled in an unruly throng behind stanchions at the airport to document the arrival of the princess when she landed. Princess Diana stepped off the plane in sky blue pleats, turned her back on us, and turned instead to be greeted by the kumari, or child goddesses, lined up to meet her. Unfortunately, as we soon discovered, the infamous Squidgy tapes—illicit recordings of the princess’s exceedingly intimate telephone conversations with Major James Hewitt—had been released that morning by The Sun, and the princess was not in the mood to play ball. In fact, unspoken pact with the tabloids shattered, she turned her back on the press corps for the entirety of the trip so that no one could get a single usable image. The atmosphere in the press canteens was not, let me tell you, jovial. The princess, incidentally, only let down her guard once. On about day four or so, she was seated outside a hut in a leprosy community in the distant hills that had taken us hours to reach, communing with some medical professionals and village elders. She looked up for a moment, saw our Vogue caps among the jostling throng of paparazzi, and laughed. We got our cover image. I digress.

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