Tuesday 9th March: Dear America – You’re welcome

I’m going to go ahead here and assume that you’re aware that the Z-List starlet, ‘Sparkles-Markles’ and her brainless brainwashed hostage, the Prince of Woke, have engaged in a ‘prime-time-tell-all-family-laundry-washing’ that, quite frankly, Jerry Springer himself would have probably considered a bit beneath him.

Only missing the lie detector test results, the heartstring-pulling tale of hurt feelings and argy-bargy with the in-laws was gripping stuff and, in true Jerry Springer style, the father of the baby was bought on in the second half.

To be fair, I don’t think Sparkles was actually stating that the Prince of Woke knocked her up and then claimed not to have done the fatherin’ but where Sparkles is concerned, who knows what she’ll pull out of her trusty handbook ‘Ten Ways To Get Famous When You Have Absolutely No Talent Whatsoever’ next.

Yep, I have a feeling this story line will run and run.

Sparkles is onto a winner here and she knows it.

Well, in Tinseltown that is.

In Woke-Ville, she’s positioned herself perfectly as the victimiest victim in all of victim land.

Sitting in some fancy villa, feet nestled in outdoor shag carpeting she was clearly too moved by her own plight and traumatised by all the privilege she’s been experiencing since she suckered His Royal Wokeness into her under-garments that she didn’t realise a bird had gone and crapped all down the front of her thousand-pound designer frock.

It’s a nightmare Sparkles and no mistake.

So, I for one think it’s far better for everyone concerned if she stays over there in Tinseltown, where being a victim is a good enough reason to get airtime. It’s not like she cares about being on the front of magazines because she’s actually good at anything, she, much like a budgie, is just happy to stare at her own, monotonous image anywhere it shows up.

Fair play to her.

But England is probably not her audience.

The Palace don’t seem that interested in who made whom cry in the great flower girl debacle of 2018 nor is the fact that Sparkles had to use Google to look up some song lyrics top of the priority list, given probably that Prince Phillip is currently very unwell and in hospital.

Did someone ask Sparkles, at some point, whether her future kids would have red hair, blue eyes or what tan level their skin would be at?



What family doesn’t discuss these matters over the dinner table at some point?

We’re just not about the playground tittle-tattle in this country.

Will Sparkles and Oprah bring down the monarchy?

Err, no?

It was good TV, in exactly the same way as good old Jerry used to be but, when the credits roll we switch off the box and go back to moaning about our lockdown-hair or trying to figure out why KFC is still not available on our Deliveroo app.

Tinseltown is very welcome to keep Sparkles and His Wokeness over there.

We’ve got William and Kate.

We don’t actually need a spare set; we’ve already got the real thing.

We absolutely love our young Royals, no matter what jibber-jabber, bullshittery Sparkles might still be plotting and if I know anything about Sparkles-Markles at all (and I think I do) it’s my suspicion that she’s scheming to shoe-horn Harry-Nice-But-Dim and herself into the top jobs and do away with Kate and William altogether.

One thing is for sure though, it’s going to take a great deal more than some half-arsed starlet and her cerebrally challenged side-kick to get Buckingham Palace into a tizzy of emotion over Sparkles and her hurt bunny act.

But she really should know this already after all, allegedly it’s why she cleared off in the first place.

And from where I’m standing, long may she stay there.

Tuesday 10th November – The greatest democracy in the world.

So, the most baffling election of all time is thankfully limping to a close.

Biden sort of won.

Trump sort of lost.

Who knows?

Is it even over? I don’t know. I completely lost interest on day (what felt like) two-hundred, and am mainly relying on gossip in my local shop for updates at the moment.

Admittedly, sourcing my political info-de-jour from the likes of Buys-Mainly-Beer-Billy and Meth-Mouth-Morris probably doesn’t leave me in the most factually accurate position to be commenting, but at least Bill and Morris are passionate and animated when they’re getting me all caught up on the tea, unlike the mainstream media, who lean more towards the patronizing and supercilious.

Also, Billy and Morris say rude words quite a lot which makes me giggle so, a total win-win over here.

Was there fraudulent postal fuckery afoot in the epically boring election?

Honestly, at this point in time, who cares.

Just put the entire fiasco out of its misery.

And, while we’re at it, can we also put the vicious mockery and snarky bitchiness of Donald Trump’s attempts at running a country for the last four years out of their misery as well.

In June 2016 Trump announced he was running for President.

Between June and November he campaigned ferociously and, from this side of the pond, it certainly looked like the whole circus had to be a joke?

A bit of a weird joke that nobody outside of the US really ‘got’ obviously, but a joke nonetheless.

He was openly racist, openly misogynistic, openly narcissistic, openly ignorant of global political conventions, or indeed history, and absurdly nationalistic to a level not witnessed since Franco and chums stomped their way around the planet.

His shady ‘Made in China’ business practices (Trump, not Franco) and Epstein level, revoltingly gross friends were well documented.

He paraded his wife around in a dress with her tits showing (again, Trump, not Franco) and discussed grabbing minge with reporters.

In short, he was not just a sociopath with a business card, he was also a total cluster-fuck in terms of a safe pair of hands to lead the free world (which apparently America does).

But in his defence, he never at any point hid any of this.

There was no subterfuge or attempt to deceive.

And America turned out in their droves and big, fat, old voted for him anyway.

Democracy in action right?

And to be fair to Trump, he hasn’t, as it turns out, actually fucked the cluster quite as definitively as I thought he was going to.

He didn’t press the big, red, shiny nuclear button (which must have been challenging for him).

We didn’t end up in WWIII with North Korea or China.

He apparently did do some good stuff with the economy and jobs.

He did try to put the American people’s interests first on the global stage.

I mean, come on, seriously, what did America expect from him?

He never made any secret about who he was.

He didn’t have any experience in the little things that would probably have been helpful for the Commander in Chief of the USA. You know, stuff like experience in public service, training in diplomacy or any understanding whatsoever of global geo-political history.

He had a red ‘rapper’ hat, a funny wig and a big gob that he was incapable of filtering, let alone closing.

And that’s pretty much all that was ever on offer, that’s all that was on the tin.

So give him a break because if y’all are going to drone on and on about being ‘The Greatest Democracy in the World’ – responsibility needs to be taken for how someone quite as resoundingly unqualified as Donald Trump found their way into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in the first place, because he didn’t gnaw his way in by accident did he?

Being the colossal narcissist that he is, he won’t take losing well and that’s to be expected.

A butterfly net and a dart gun are probably going to be needed in order to get him to vacate the premises but again, that should be expected.

And if there are issues getting rid of Donald Trump, please remember who it was that put him there in the first place.

Also, on another helpful note, there are these new inventions that might aid the ballot process in future elections.

They can count lots of numbers really, really quickly and might be a useful tool in preventing accusations of postal voting tomfoolery as democracy marches ever forward.

They’re called computers.

And truly, they’re smashing.

I know right.

Who knew?

Tuesday 21st July – Prince Harry: The Missingest Man in England

In 1974, Patty Hearst, a wealthy heiress living in Berkeley, California, was pottering around her apartment wondering whether she should have a toasted cheese sandwich or stick to her diet, and just have a yoghurt for lunch when the front-door burst open and a bunch of semi-automatic, weapon-brandishing loonies barged in and abducted her.

Patty obviously objected at first on the grounds that she still hadn’t had her lunch but, sensing her very survival depended on compliance rather than cheese toasties, decided not to hold a grudge about the whole abducting thing and appeared to enthusiastically throw herself into the only activities her new captors seemed interested in.

 Armed robbery, yet more abductions, bomb making, murdering, that sort of thing.

The muppets who grabbed her were complete no-marks who simply wanted to be famous. Despite all their political blah-blah-bullshit, the reality is that their only agenda was to get a bit of attention for themselves and political philosophy was just a convenient way to get their names in the papers.

It really is that simple.

Obviously, at the time, her parents and the wider public, took a pretty dim view of Patty’s new friends and indeed, her new set of hobbies, and it was only later that everyone discovered she hadn’t engaged in the shitty behaviour willingly, but had been traumatised to such an extent that an entirely new mental health diagnosis emerged to describe situations where innocent folk are snatched by rabidly fame hungry nobodies for the purpose of furthering their own agenda of turning the lemons that are their empty, vapid existences into the bright shiny lemonade of fame and fortune.

Which brings me to Meghan Markle.

And her detainee, the Duke of Sussex.

Everytime they appear anywhere together she’s staring at him with that fixed, sinister smile that doesn’t quite get as far as her eyes, it’s unsettling to watch and I can only imagine how it feels for Prince-Harry-Hearst to have that malevolent little smirk directed at him.

The sense of cold sweat trickling down his back, a throbbing pain behind his temples, the sound of an accelerated heart rate thumping in his head as he dutifully reads his captor’s ideological political crap off the autocue in front of him.

And lest we forget, the ever present nauseous awareness of the Glock 17 she’s got pointed at his man-parts.

Nope, Harry-Hearst didn’t get married, he got shanghaied.

I expect he innocently took flowers to his first date with Maniacal-Meghan, but then, to be fair, he thought she was just a girl standing in front of a boy rather than the apex, shark-like predator she actually turned out to be.

He’d have been better off bringing a safety cage.

And with all the survival awareness of a gummy bear, he then went ahead and made it legal in an elaborate ceremony that, in retrospect, was nothing more than a ‘hiding-in-plain-sight’ seizure.

It’s a sorry situation and no mistake.

Having said all that, happy endings are possible in these hostage situations, indeed even Patty Hearst was eventually freed and went on to live a fulfilling life safe in the bosom of her family and loved ones.

So we just have to keep the faith.

And hope that Harry knows there are lots of nice bosoms in here at home in England that would happily accommodate him.

In the meantime, he needs to just focus on surviving, and pass the time with plans for his upcoming autobiography:

‘Stockholm Syndrome & Me: A Prince’s Tale’.