Royal Family Cousin Has Strong Opinions on Meghan Markle Claiming 'Sussex' Name
Royal Family Cousin Has Strong Opinions on Meghan Markle Claiming 'Sussex' Name originally appeared on Parade.
Sometimes royal tea gets spilled in the most unexpected places, and Lord Ivar Mountbatten just delivered a masterclass in aristocratic nomenclature that has royal watchers buzzing. Fresh off his victory, King Charles's second cousin couldn't help but weigh in on Meghan Markle's recent claim about her family name – and his correction is raising eyebrows across the pond.
During a recent conversation with Mindy Kaling on With Love, Meghan, Meghan stated "You know I'm Sussex now," referring to her family name. But according to Mountbatten during a Town and Country interview, who knows a thing or two about royal protocols, she's "completely incorrect."
The reality? Meghan's actual family name is Mountbatten-Windsor, the same surname used by Prince Harry and their children Archie and Lilibet. Sussex isn't a family name – it's a title. The distinction might seem subtle to us commoners, but in royal circles, it's apparently significant.
"They are the Duke and Duchess of Sussex, but actually he's Harry Mountbatten-Windsor and she would be Meghan Mountbatten-Windsor," Mountbatten explained with the patience of someone who's spent a lifetime navigating these aristocratic intricacies.
To illustrate his point, he referenced his own family: "My brother is the Marquess of Milford Haven, but his surname is Mountbatten, so he's called George Mountbatten, the Marquess of Milford Haven."
This surname education comes courtesy of someone uniquely qualified to deliver it. As a descendant of Queen Victoria and the first openly gay member of the extended royal family, Mountbatten understands both tradition and the complexities of carving out your own identity within established institutions.
Related: King Charles III's Reaction to Prince Louis Breaking Royal Protocol Is Breaking the Internet!
The Mountbatten-Windsor name itself has fascinating royal history, combining Prince Philip's surname (Mountbatten) with the Windsor name adopted by King George V in 1917. Queen Elizabeth II established this naming convention in 1960 for her direct descendants.
What makes this moment particularly interesting is Mountbatten's matter-of-fact delivery. Having just conquered reality television's most duplicitous game, he approached this royal correction with the same straightforward honesty that won over Traitors audiences.
Whether Meghan's statement was a simple misunderstanding or intentional simplification for her American audience, one thing's clear: when it comes to royal protocol, there's always someone keeping score.
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Royal Family Cousin Has Strong Opinions on Meghan Markle Claiming 'Sussex' Name first appeared on Parade on Jun 18, 2025
This story was originally reported by Parade on Jun 18, 2025, where it first appeared.
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But it turns out that on this afternoon trip, to which I arrived sober, Pineapple Hill Saloon is a classy pub with lots of television screens, dark wood accents, and nice booths. There were even a couple of lovely older ladies sitting down to their usual Sunday brunch. 'A tuna quesadilla is weird,' I said to my friend Kevin as we scanned the menu, before he pointed out that it's no weirder than a tuna melt. The quesadilla arrived studded with diced jalapeños and a side of Tito's Tacos-esque thin, mild fresh tomato salsa. (It was perfectly fine, though decidedly less good than a tuna melt.) The hit of the day was a plate of chili-cheese Tater Tots, arranged like a molten mesa. 'How's the lobster bisque?' I asked our bartender. 'Don't order the lobster bisque,' he responded, so I ordered the Father's Stew — a beef stew whose menu description confusingly leads with green beans. It supposedly dates back to an old family recipe, and arrives loaded with big hunks of beef and potato. 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My friend accidentally took a picture with his flash on, and it was clear from several cold stares that a violation of the space had occurred. The chef ambled out, pulled himself a draft beer from behind the bar, and walked it back to the kitchen. Exterior of Pogo's. Noah Galuten We drank a pitcher of lightly sweet Pogo's Blonde, which the bartender said is custom-made for them by Budweiser. Pogo's menu is deep, and breakfast is served all day. I wanted to order a rash Can Omelet but instead asked for the specialty of the house: a trio of small and better-than-expected cabeza tacos and some surprisingly good garlic-Parmesan and classic Buffalo chicken wings. I'm just going to say it: I loved Pogo's immediately, and thought we might have already found the best dive bar in Los Angeles. We wanted to order more food, but decided to take the win and move on. 'How was my picture?' someone stopped us on the still-sunlit street, following us outside, probably to make sure we're just idiots versus something more shameful. We apologized again for the intrusion and made our way, but that question was another sign of a good dive bar: it's typically a place for people who don't want any record of having been there. Our next stop was Norwood Bar & Lounge in North Hills, a small dive with long booths, an eclectic mix of hand-painted art (think Goose Island beer fan art and Mexican folk art), and a vending machine stuffed with Takis, Tic-Tacs, Red Bull, and Pepcid AC. Like Pat's, this cocktail lounge had pizza ovens behind the bar. 'How's the shrimp po' boy?' I asked the bartender. 'Popular,' she responded flatly. Despite its popularity, the po'boy was a soggy, stodgy crime against fried shrimp. The bacon-wrapped, cream-cheese-stuffed fried jalapeños were better. We drank Modelo Especial (perhaps the official beer of Valley dive bars) instead of the Donkey Punch — 'a mix of three rums, fruit juices, and a SoCo (Southern Comfort) float' limited to two per customer. I didn't order the Donkey Punch because I didn't want to die. Then we set off to the next location, but not before seeing a sign in the Norwood Shopping Center across the street advertising Tofu Spa Massage. 'Where did you guys go before this?' asked our server at Springbok Bar & Grill — admittedly not a dive bar, but rather, a classic South African rugby sports bar? Springbok Bar & Grill. Ray Suen 'Pogo's' I said, having already forgotten our previous stop, Norwood Bar & Lounge. 'If you came from Pogo's, then this must feel like the Ritz-Carlton,' she quipped. The table behind me gave us our second White Claw bucket sighting of the night. The server insisted that they always sell out of the peri-peri chicken livers and we should order them while we can. After another round of Modelo, the livers arrived on a dinner plate, nicely cooked and saucy, blanketed with fried onions and served with a dinner roll on the side. But the hit of the bar, and honestly perhaps the whole night, was the boerwors sausage — a South African beef-and-pork sausage that's made in-house, and pocked with more cloves than I have ever consumed in a single bite of food in my life. The sheer amount of clove is bracing at first but quickly grows on you. Sausages come sliced and nicely charred, alongside a sauce called 'train smash' — a thin tomato and onion gravy that tastes like Dutch colonialism. We left quite happy, and my friend Kevin dubbed it 'South African Chili's.' We headed west to Valley Glen, a sleepy neighborhood just west of North Hollywood, landing at Ireland's 32, a Valley institution since 1963, its name a reference to the number of counties in Ireland. This is the Irish pub that all other Irish pubs aspire to be — a genuine locals scene, far away from a college town, and packed with patrons of all stripes. There only seemed to be one bartender and another guy working in the back. To be honest, I don't know how they pulled it off, but our bartender was friendly and efficient, pouring drinks and taking food orders at the same time; every other person seemed to be waiting for the Blue Ramblers to take the stage. How did the cook in the back know who to run food to? I have no clue. The workers were deep in the weeds, but no one seemed to mind. Once the Ramblers took the stage, we saw women in their 20s dancing next to foot-tapping septuagenarians. We drank black-and-tans while waiting for our food, only feeling hurried because we wanted to see how many more bars we could hit before all of their kitchens closed. Fish and chips at Ireland's 32. Noah Galuten When the food did come, it was some of the best pub grub I've encountered in Los Angeles, highlighted by a dark, crisp, and airy batter that surrounded the deep-fried pickle spears as well as the cod on the fish-and-chips plate. Frankly, they were both lovely. The chips, which looked like the kind of overly browned and soggy potato wedges I typically hate, were even better, crisp and fluffy. I wanted to order one 'weird' thing, but my friends all shouted 'No' when I suggested the salmon and rice plate (too much of a '90s lunch plate for an Irish pub, maybe?). I opted instead for potato balls, a breaded sphere of bacon-and-cheese-filled mashed potatoes, deep-fried and covered in a creamy chipotle sauce. It was significantly more satisfying than it needed to be, and, in retrospect, may be the perfect fusion of Irish-Los Angeles bar food. We were stunned by how well the stop turned out, just before our delightful bartender covertly dropped four glasses of 'dessert' Bailey's-and-whiskey shooters, and thanked us for waiting. It was already nearly 10 p.m., and honestly a shame to have to leave. Did we walk down the street to Robin Hood British Pub and order Avocado Stuffed with Bay Shrimp? Yes, we did. It's basically a shrimp Louie on top of an avocado half. Look: if you're the kind of person who wants bay shrimp with Russian dressing on top of an avocado, I can't imagine you will be disappointed by what shows up. We ordered another round of lagers, too, but I felt far more full than buzzed at this point. Champs Sports Pub. Noah Galuten We next tried our luck at tiki bar legend the Tonga Hut, which I'm told serves solid tacos in the alley out back, but there wasn't time to stick out the hour-long wait to sit at the bar. So off we went to Burbank, sneaking in our orders at Champs Sports Pub before last call for food (which usually lands around 10:45 p.m.). This joint felt certainly more sports bar than dive bar, but the truth is that not many dive bars serve noteworthy food. Bloated on beer and fry oil, we dipped a soft pretzel into cheese sauce and a paper boat of chili. We ate run-of-the-mill mozzarella sticks and then found ourselves going back again and again for something Champs calls 'sidewinders' — picture spiral-cut state fair potato tornadoes, except if the machine was busted and kept chipping them off into small slices of fluffy, crisp, wide, seasoned fries. We gave one last cheers while rehashing the night's bar crawl. The consensus best bite of the night went to the cloven sausage from Springbok (though I cheated and voted for the multi-function beer batter at Ireland's 32). Best overall dive bar went to Pogo's. In the end, we discovered two absolute gems in the San Fernando Valley bar scene, and places we would return to in a heartbeat. Was my stomach ruined for about four days from, in all likelihood, a terrifying amount of fry oil? Absolutely. But it's a small price to pay for doing this all-important work. It is perhaps the closest thing I'll ever do to public service — giving back to the city that raised me.
