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.



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.