Our Spy On the Upper East Side

What Your Money Can’t Buy

I am just a fool for royalty. I love pedigree and class and am happy to perform my dancing school curtsy to anyone with an HRH in front of their name.

What makes me sad is that we don’t have the equivalent of Royals in this country unless you count the fact that New Yorkers tend to grovel and bow in front of anyone who has made a billion dollars. And if these mortals are now our royals, I demand more pomp, more circumstance (whatever that means) and a lot more chivalry.

Not so long ago I attended a memorial service in London for a dear friend and Prince Charles was among the mourners. Okay, so yes, there’s tons of protocol and a load of bodyguards that travel with him. But the P of W didn’t barge in, make a clatter, and shift the attention away from the deceased. His manner was unassuming and gentle and nothing screamed, “Look at me; I’m the Prince of Wales.”

Oh, how different are our Masters of the New York City Universe but, then again, their money is so new and their pedigrees are shorter than my chihuahua’s. New York royals enter into bidding wars when building their castles and worry about the competition building an even bigger one.

When our royalty make their first billion, the need to acquire becomes all consuming—if Windsor Castle came on the market, brokers would go in for the kill. No wonder one of the major British royals is known to intensely dislike Americans. He thinks we’re a greedy group who only think about our net worth.