The odious Omid Scobie

I don’t remember exactly when I first read about the ancient courtier role of Groom of the Stool, but it’s a fascinating business. Here’s Wikipedia to explain: 

The Groom of the Stool was the most intimate of an English monarch’s courtiers, responsible for assisting in excretion. The physical intimacy of the role naturally led to his becoming a man in whom much confidence was placed by his royal master and with whom many royal secrets were shared as a matter of course. It is a matter of some debate as to whether the duties involved cleaning the king’s anus, but the groom is known to have been responsible for supplying a bowl, water and towels and also for monitoring the king’s diet and bowel movements.

But I do remember thinking “Oh — so that’s what a Groom of the Stool looks like!” on first seeing a photograph of Omid Scobie. It’s hard to imagine after reading his alleged “book” Finding Freedom that anyone has ever fulfilled the fundamental function of Groom of the Stool as fulsomely as him.  

Despite duchessy disavowals of collaboration, Scobie’s Finding Freedom had the “see how I suffer” stamp of Meghan’s expensively shod hoof all over it. Among other things, we learned that this paragon’s “willingness to help others and her drive to excel meant she often was deemed ‘fake’ by classmates at school who felt it was impossible for anyone to be that perfect” and that “Meghan immediately impressed Harry with her packing skills. She has always taken pride in being a great packer — going as far as layering dryer sheets in between her clothes to keep them smelling fresh.”

The stench of lickspittle hagiography comes through strongly. When Meghan’s ex-communications secretary Jason Knauf testified under oath that he and the duchess discussed the ghastly tome “on a routine basis” before its publication, no one was in the least surprised. In a very modern twist on the old “Never explain, never complain” mantra of the Windsors, “always complain, always explain why everyone except you is such a horrid bully” became the Sussex strap line, soon to be elaborated on in Harry’s wretched autobiography Spare. 

Finding Freedom’s co-author Carolyn Durand appears to have decided that a period of silent penance might be the best way to make up to the world for inflicting such bilge on it, but Scobie is made of stronger stuff (although if I was him, I wouldn’t put such a flagrantly inflammable face anywhere near a naked flame).  

He has kept soldiering on with his uphill journey of making the Duchess of Sussex and her Grabdication seem like Joan of Arc if she was a C-list actress famous for marrying a rich man. Scobie’s new book Endgame has already been in the news this week due to its general peevishness (once more, every member of the royal family except Meghan and Harry are beastly) and its specific reveal of the “Royal Racists” which has seen one become two. The smell of burning bridges will outdo any of the scented candles in a certain Montecito mansion this festive season, one imagines. It is being driven home mercilessly to the baffled, tethered prince that despite the recent hints of a reconciliation, he can never go home again. 

It’s hard to work out who is the most pitiable of the three principal players in this shabby cavalcade. Markle has used the very real evils of racism and misogyny to conceal her true mission — ceaseless promotion of herself to a level of sainthood, or at least Oprah-hood. The massively privileged and profoundly dim man who has given her a world platform is also a disgrace. But, on balance, the sheer parasitic poisonousness of Scobie wins him the top spot. Writers have often wanted to warm themselves on the furnace of fame and glamour. Truman Capote hung out with Marilyn Monroe; Rex Reed went on bar crawls with Ava Gardner. In these cultural dog-days, the nearest we get to such a union is a puppet-faced poltroon having his strings pulled by Princess Pinocchio, to give her Piers Morgan’s amusing nomenclature. Diana had Andrew Morton; Charles had Anthony Holden and Jonathan Dimbleby. Meghan has a hack from Heat who seems to lie about his age — among other things. We truly get the chroniclers we deserve, though I’d draw the line at saying Scobie has the face he deserves, as no one could have committed so much wrongdoing in the space of a mere forty-two years. 

And now Morgan himself has stepped in — like Red Adair in reverse — to chuck fuel on the fire by naming the alleged racists on television, thus guaranteeing a very sad Yuletide indeed for poor befuddled Prince Harry, whose chance of being welcomed back to the bosom of his family seems unlikely. Will Haz reflect sadly as he sits smoking a “blunt” in the chicken coop that, whereas his ancestor gave up a throne for an American divorcee, he has given up thrice-weekly visits to Knockers nightclub, a sacrifice which seems increasingly pointless if the sour face on him in public outings is anything to go by? For what shall it profit a man if he shall gain up to twenty-two toilets and lose his own soul? As for Scobie, despised by his fellow journalists and abandoned by his puppet-master, it seems increasingly likely that it is “endgame” for him rather than the House of Sussex. Still, with his résumé, he can always find an opening grooming stools for a living. 

This article was originally published on The Spectator’s UK website.