Why Princess Margaret will forever be my favourite royal

I can’t tell if I would have loved to have been a guest at one of Princess Margaret’s dinner parties, or if I’m lucky that time, and social class, prevented me from ever attending. On one hand, it’s said she stationed waiters holding bottles of Famous Grouse scotch every 50 feet. On the other, she objected if guests broke royal protocol and left before her. Which could be a while, as she liked to sing into the early hours of the morning. Then, there was this manoeuvre: “The princess’s party trick seems to have been to lull people into a false sense of security and camaraderie,” writes Hamish Bowles, “and then demolish them with regal, rank-pulling put-downs that are masterpieces of the art.” Take this alleged tale: The princess sat next to Twiggy at a dinner party. She didn’t speak to her for two hours. Finally, she turned to her and asked: “Who are you?”

The supermodel responded: “I’m Lesley Hornby, ma’am, but people call me Twiggy.”

“How unfortunate,” Princess Margaret said.

Right now, we live in an age of royal women as role models. They are polished, poised, beautiful, and intelligent. They champion charities. They undertake gruelling, two-week tours around the world while pregnant. (And they get criticised anyway for supposedly breaking royal rules by wearing certain shoes or dresses, or for being “difficult” by sending emails at 5.00am) They are leaders; shining model citizens.

And I admire them for it! But I still miss the royal who was far from.

I don’t think Margaret would mind me saying that. Hell, she once said “disobedience is my joy,” about herself. She knew the perks of royal life and enjoyed them. The princess drove around London in a chauffeured limousine. Sometimes she’d demand a motorcycle escort, or a helicopter to fly her… 13 miles. She’d shop at Marks & Spencer or Harrods, paying in cash or by a check simply signed “Margaret.” Every Friday, she’d get her hair done in Mayfair. She spent extravagantly on clothing—fabulous clothing, I might add—and on trips: Her 1960 honeymoon cost $115,000 (~Rs 7.9 million). “Princess Margaret’s Way of Life Provokes Protests,” reads a New York Times headline from 1978. (What caused the ire? An “extended Caribbean holiday” with a man 17 years her junior—after she had only made eight appearances that year.)

Not that she was so prim and proper herself. She partied hard with a group of aristocrats in Mustique. She danced the night away in Soho clubs. She drank and smoked like a fish. (According to Ma’am Darling: 99 Glimpses of Princess Margaret by Craig Brown, every morning she started smoking at 9am, and had a vodka pick-me-up at 12.30pm.) She hung with a bohemian crowd in Swinging Sixties London. Picasso was infatuated with her, Andy Warhol put her in the index of his diary, and there were even rumours of an affair with Mick Jagger. Eventually, she married photographer Antony Charles Robert Armstrong-Jones. They got divorced years later. (“I didn’t really want to marry at all. Why did I? Because he asked me!” the princess said. “Really, though, he was such a nice person in those days.”)

I don’t mean to idolise her life. By most accounts, Princess Margaret carried some darkness—from not being able to marry her true love, Peter Townsend; from living in the shadow of her sister; and likely a combination of other ills kept out of the public eye. Papers at the time (perhaps cruelly) described her as bored by royal life. “She is restless; spasmodic —though often intense—in her interests; easily bored,” wrote The New Statesman. “She devours magazines, modish books, delights in fashionable West End musical comedies, ‘good’ jazz and the latest semi‐intellectual cultural interests from America. There is a certain brittle superficiality about her mind, an inability to concentrate for long which sometimes disturbs her elders.” And the smoking and drinking caught up—she died at the relatively young age of 71.

But in a way, I do admire her. For so long, men who have indulged in wild behaviour have been lauded—see: the “bad boy” trope, or the fantasy of the “rock star” lifestyle. Women though? Eh, not so much. It’s certainly changing—the squeaky clean pop-star image is finally dead, and “girls behaving badly” is a better descriptor for clever movies like Bridesmaids and Blockers rather than weird male fantasy films. But the expectation that women should always be sweet and nice—should be likeable—it still hangs over us, at work, on Instagram, during presidential elections.

But Margaret—a princess! The supposed epitome of decorum!—said “screw it” way before it was okay to say. Maybe it was the guaranteed wealth and the guaranteed status. But she eschewed propriety for pleasure, and, it seems, didn’t regret it. “To many people, Princess Margaret was the black sheep of her generation of royals. But that reputation did not necessarily trouble her,” reads a line in her New York Times obituary. And oh, how I hope it didn’t.

This article originally appeared on Vogue.com

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