One day, Harold the glove puppet will tell the truth about A Woman Talking B*****ks
WE all know in our heart of hearts that Harold Markle is a slightly dim but fun-loving chin who flew Apache helicopter gunships in Afghanistan and cavorted around Las Vegas hotel rooms with naked hookers.
But then along came Meghan, who obviously used some vivid bedroom promises to turn him into a warrior of woke.
And now it seems that she has her arm so far up his bottom, she can use her fingers to alter his facial expressions.
I actually feel rather sorry for him because today he’s just a glove puppet with no more control over what he says or does than Basil Brush.
Meghan, though, is a different story. I hate her.
Not like I hate Nicola Sturgeon or Rose West. I hate her on a cellular level.
At night, I’m unable to sleep as I lie there, grinding my teeth and dreaming of the day when she is made to parade naked through the streets of every town in Britain while the crowds chant, “Shame!” and throw lumps of excrement at her.
Everyone who’s my age thinks the same way.
But what makes me despair is that younger people, especially girls, think she’s pretty cool.
They think she was a prisoner of Buckingham Palace, forced to talk about nothing but embroidery and kittens.
That makes me even angrier. Can’t they see everything that’s happening is so very obviously pre-planned.
Leave the UK. Blame the royals. Do an interview with Oprah.
Get Basil Brush to write a book. Do a Netflix series — which should have been called A Woman, Talking Bollocks.
I can see it clearly. The studied pauses. The mock incredulity.
And the B-movie, soap-actress, quivery-voiced, more-in-sorrow-than-anger stories that are so obviously claptrap.
Do you really think she would have entertained a move to New Zealand? That’s 13 hours away from everything.
SLAVES AND EUNUCHS
The spotlight of fame she craves so desperately would have been a 40-watt bulb, and no one would have seen it.
Nah. She was always going to end up in California.
And I can tell you, with absolute certainty, what’s coming next.
Harold’s Spare book will be released.
Then she’ll do one called I Think I May Be God. And then she’ll have exhausted the whole royal thing — so will be off.
We will see Diana-style photographs of her, all on her own, outside the Taj Mahal.
And then she will be pictured gazing into the middle distance, on the back of a playboy’s superyacht and will marry a tech billionaire and they’ll have a child called something vomitty like Peace. Or Truth.
Or Love.
Harold, meanwhile, will be stuck in California with no friends, either there or here, no family to support him and an army of young girls who’ll believe Meghan’s story that the marriage break-up was all his fault because he’s, like, you know, sooooo a man.
And the Royal Family?
She’s going to damage them — be in no doubt about that.
Because one day soon, my generation will all be dead, and we will be replaced by a new bunch who are growing up believing that Charles and William and Co are bullies who are waited on hand and foot by slaves, eunuchs and spin doctors.
Unless, of course, when Meghan takes her hand out of the ginger glove puppet, he remembers who he is and gives us “the” truth.
Not hers.
HOW TO SHAFT LABOUR
WE live in strange times.
The Conservative Party is fighting tooth and nail to open a new coal mine in the North of England, and the Labour Party is fighting tooth and nail to stop them.
I’m praying it opens. Partly because I’m from Doncaster so have coal in my blood – and fireplace – but mostly because Sir Starmer and his Labour luvvies will have to close it down.
This will cause the miners to go on strike, which in turn will force Starmer to send an army of Met Police officers up North to beat some sense into them with their truncheons.
Then he will have to stop schoolchildren drinking milk because of the damage cows do to the environment.
And then he may have to go to war with Argentina for stealing the World Cup. Which they will, sadly.
SALUTE TO LIFE LESSON
FOR 25 years, schools have hosted a play in which an actor, dressed as Hitler, stands in front of a swastika and shows how easy it is to manipulate the mind of a crowd by craftily getting pupils to make Nazi salutes.
It’s critically acclaimed and clever and exactly what kids need to learn.
But not any more, of course. Now, it’s “disgraceful” and it makes people “feel sick”.
And one school which put it on has been forced to say they will ensure it never happens again.
Right. So you won’t screen Schindler’s List either, then? You will do nothing to educate kids about Nazism?
Instead, you’ll just show them Bambi.
Until someone complains it’s offensive to vegans.
Kids go to school to learn. And they can’t do that unless you tell them things.
Some of which may very well be extremely.
I WAS saddened to hear Freddie Flintoff has been hurt while filming for some kind of car show on the BBC.
I wish him a full and speedy recovery, of course, but would point out that him jumping into a car and bombing round a track in front of the cameras is the same as me walking out at Lord’s and opening the batting for England.
If I did, I would be walking back again 12 seconds later, with a broken nose.
ON HAND TO HELP
WE like to think that as a country, we are pretty civilised.
We do not defecate in public.
Most of us give up our seat on the bus or the train if a pregnant lady needs it.
And news-readers warn those with epilepsy if the following item contains flash photography.
Yet I read this week that during the ambulance drivers’ strike, elderly people will not get help after a fall until they’ve been “on the floor” for at least four hours.
That’s barbaric.
So let’s show that unlike the Government and unions, we are not – by pledging over Christmas to keep an eye on neighbours.
And vowing that if they fall, we will take them to hospital ourselves.
FARMERS must stop using pesticides because insects feel pain, say researchers.
Really? So how come male mantids do not try to run away when they are being eaten by the partners during sex?
DOPEY EXCUSE
WHEN I read this week about a policeman-woman who claimed she didn’t know her husband was a drug dealer, I laughed so hard my spleen came out.
The husband in question was a shaven- headed Albanian who was covered in tattoos, wore no socks, drank from silver-plated goblets and drove around in a £70,000 Audi.
Apparently, she thought he was a chef.
Yeah right, and Pablo Escobar was a gardener.