Harry and Meghan
THE PLANET IN A DEATH SPIRAL, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge lie awake at night, tossing and turning, agonising over the terrible everyday sacrifices they have to make to continue with the facade that they are not just a pair of self-righteous, virtue-signalling hypocrites.
Agreeing to cease fornicating after their second child was a watershed moment. As was their decision to cut their private Lear-Jet flights to Elton John’s mansion in Castel Mont-Alban down to twice a week. Likewise, flights to Ibiza for Meghan’s birthday celebrations, a tearful Meghan agrees, could be cut to just one per year. Ditto for all the Royal couple’s flights to the thousands of totally useless climate-change events around the world. One return flight to each, “maximum”, Harry nods. “But what about seeing Al, and Bono and Leo?” Meghan cries. “They can go and fuck themselves,” I suggest, and Harry agrees to that too.
To the question of taking regular flights like everyone else, where Harry and Meghan might find themselves sitting opposite just an ordinary bloke, such as that madman Jeremy Corbyn chanting ‘Death to the blood-sucking sycophants” the entire trip, they were a bit evasive. “The smell of the man would be the worst part,” they agreed, finally.
The Queen (no, Elizabeth, silly, not Elton), in her great wisdom, told Harry that the energy from burning all the trashy magazines Meghan edits, such as Vogue, could save China from building 5,000 new coal-fired power stations this year alone.
And as for her wacko son, Prince Philip (himself, not dealing with a full deck) exclaims: “If Charles would stop dancing, chanting voodoo and burning incense around that Thunberg effigy of his all day and get back to talking to plants again, the planet might return to normal.”