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’.

Thursday 9th January – Farewell Madison, and thanks for playing.

Yes, I’ve seen the news.

Yes, I know 50% of the folks are livid about Madison (or whatever her name is) and Harry jacking in their jobs as royals, and yes the other 50% are livid about the bullying and ‘no-fair’ treatment that Madison has been subjected to by Britain. 

As a whole.

Like, all of us.

And since one of my uber favourite hobbies is laying into the royals, I should really have an opinion on this.

But the fact is – I don’t.

We all know that Harry does stupid stuff.

He is literally Prince-Does-Dumb-Shit.

But that’s chill, he’s Diana’s son and we forgive him because, like most rogues, he’s charming, mischievous and frankly, a little bit naughty.

Love that.

When he first said he was planning to marry that Z-list starlet chick, I just figured he was doing it to vex his Nan and Grandad.

Total jokes.

And probably, knowing Prince-Does-Dumb-Shit, he was only doing it to vex his Nan and Grandad.

But then, as is often the unintended consequence of doing dumb shit the whole fiasco took on a life of its own and bish-bash-bosh, before we knew it there was an intriguingly flamboyant African chap explaining about love (actually) to the assembled congregation of St George’s Chapel, Windsor.

Obviously, being British, the majority of the aforementioned congregation had slipped into airplane mode during this rather unsightly, emotionally charged jibber-jabber as we prefer to keep all of the four letter words nailed safely behind the bedroom door where they belong.

Harry looked anxiously preoccupied.

But the reality is, knowing Harry (and I think we do) it probably wasn’t the colorful, Kenny Everett style preacher grinding his gears, it was probably the wedding night ahead.

He was wondering if it’s true that when you take a match and light a lady’s Bedtime-Farts on fire, whether their bush really does go up in flames too.

I don’t know Harry, why don’t you give it a try. It can’t be worse than the Nazi themed party you threw a few years ago.

He’s such a rascal.

Anyway, moving on and he knocks her up.

Cool.

Whatever.

Then they spent some money on a flat.

Okey dokey then.

Now they’re off to the US.

Perfect, send us a postcard.

Ever since the first moment that Our-Kate walked up to the assembled group of Harry, William and Madison, smiled warmly and chirped “Well, if it isn’t my two favourite people” – Madison was doomed.

Miss Madison arrived in the UK in her dreamy, fairytale carriage believing that she was going to be the star of The Windsors: Season One. 

Laboring under some illusion that since the 10th century the United Kingdom has been waiting for nothing more than a true Hollywood nobody to come over here and glam us all up she has tried, and failed miserably at getting our attention.

The truth is, nobody has bullied Madison.

The truth is, nobody gave a tiny rat’s behind about her.

And that wasn’t the glittering Home-Coming-Queen-Spectacular she was expecting.

Well, welcome to England love.

The marriage of Harry and Madison stands no chance whatsoever but in Harry’s defence, you only get married for the first time once and he has, as ever, caused his family some sleepless nights, headaches and gritted teeth, so that should make him happy.

He’ll piss about in LA for a bit, and then he’ll be back.

Without whats-her-face.

Which is cool because I’ve forgotten her already.