The Column: An anti-monarchist with a Windsor fave

This may not be the best time to mention it because of Queen Elizabeth’s death, but I am by temperament an anti-monarchist.

No need for King Charles III to be alarmed. Our nation’s adios to the Empire in 1776 makes unnecessary any palace coup or third-column plot against the Windsor dynasty I might have entertained.

The only healthy outlet for my feelings, then, is to groan unfailingly when my wife, Wink, is watching “The Crown” and to mutter “most irrelevant people in the world” whenever there is news of the royals, including the adorable Prince Harry and his wife, Meghan Markle, Duchess of Sussex.

Recently, for instance, there was a flurry of excitement when Meghan adopted a beagle named Mamma Mia that had been rescued — with 4,000 others — from some grim breeding plant in Virginia.

“Prince Harry and Meghan Markle’s family is growing!” said People magazine, judging the development electrifying enough to award an exclamation point.

Mamma Mia now has the run of a mansion and 7-acre spread in California which, you may recall, the Prince and Duchess acquired after forgoing a privileged existence in Britain to live more like regular people here in the United States.

And, who, seeking simplicity, does not head for the West Coast and purchase a $14.65 million Mediterranean-style home near Santa Barbara with nine bedrooms and 16 bathrooms? If you are feeling guilty for pondering a condo in Myrtle Beach, relax.

It’s worth mentioning that I did applaud Harry and Meghan when, delightfully, they chose Archie as a name for their first born. Briefly, I wondered if a Betty, Veronica and Jughead might come along, too, but the couple settled on the lovely “Lilibet” for their next child, a daughter, and there went chances of an Archie Comics revue.

You can see how easily I veer out of control on this matter.

“Stop,” says Wink. “They look like nice people.”

All right, they do.

Harry and Meghan are committed to high-minded causes — from supporting the rights of Afghan women to racial justice projects — and, for that, I say good show. Not everyone in a nine-
bedroom home is so admirably inclined.

But, in general, the whole royalty thing baffles me. The pomp and circumstance. The regal rigmarole. His or Her Highness? Really? What does that make the rest of us stuck down below?

“You just can’t handle authority figures,” says Wink. “Name a boss you didn’t compare to Pol Pot.”

There is something to Wink’s analysis, of course.

As a reporter, I often squabbled with editors, and sometimes robustly.

“Whaddaya’ mean rewrite the top?”

“Not clear enough.”

“Who sez?”

“Just do it.”

“Six times already.”

“Make it seven.”

“Aw, nuts.”

Once a bigshot at the paper called in a few of us for one of those getting-to-know-you sessions prescribed in executive handbooks.

Seizing the opportunity, I offered my invaluable critique of the news operation with a long list of reform measures I urged him to implement immediately.

“When’d you graduate college?” the boss asked, firmly.

“Sixties,” I said.

“No surprise,” he sighed, looking like he soon would shred the management how-to manual advising tea-and-cookie sessions with the staff.

You know what he was thinking, right? That I was one of those scraggly campus rads who occupied the dean’s office and carried signs telling the Establishment where to go.

Nope. Met Wink as a sophomore. Married as a senior. Father a year later. I was changing diapers, not the world.

But, true enough, I’m not disposed to the ruling class.

Except I liked Liz.

Queen Elizabeth had detractors as was evident in some commentary after she died, but I admired her resolve, steadfastness and aura of accessibility. As many Brits said, she was the nation’s grandmother — “Granny,” as she was called by kids in her family.

This, too: My mother, Winnie, and the Queen were separated at birth, I’m convinced. Side-by-side photos of Mom and Elizabeth could have been from a doppelgänger exhibit. Identical stature, rosy cheeks, ready smiles. Same hats, little black pumps, prim dresses and hilarious purses.

Mom was “Granny,” too, and, like the Queen, a decent sort, big-hearted and true.

Winnie lived to 91. Elizabeth beat her by five years. To them both, beloved souls, hip-hip-hooray.