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JEREMY CLARKSON One day, Harold the glove puppet will tell the truth about A Woman Talking B***ks
Jeremy Clarkson
Published: 21:38, 16 Dec 2022Updated: 21:39, 16 Dec 2022
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. 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