Still scribbling

Where have Harry and Meghan gone in our hour of need.

Removed as we are on this far-flung little island from the realms of power, intrigue, warfare and geopolitical bastardy, we cannot claw our way out of the Trumpian dragnet. The man’s influence is everywhere. Vlodymyr Zelensky’s weary, troubled face trots across our television screens night after night. Donald Trump and Elon Musk call him nasty names. The Canadians may soon be massing with pitchforks at the American border. Ditto the Mexicans. Let’s not forget they have a major weapon in Freddy Fender and could easily loudspeaker his songs across what’s left of the Rio Grande. Close to home we’ve had dastardly Chinese warships furtively cruising the Tasman Sea barely a battered prawn throw from the fish caff at Bicheno.  It’s a worry alright. 

So who will put a smile on our faces in such troubled times. Why Harry and Meghan of course.

Wasn’t that long ago the duke and duchess would have come up trumps when it all got too much and we had to have a good lie down. Harry would reliably rail at any number of Royal family members, especially Camilla. Meghan would execute a flurry of flamboyant curtsies and indicate this was all the go in the corridors of Buck Pal. Then off they’d trot to have another little natter to Oprah expressing general unhappiness at being rich, titled, famous and up to their eyeballs in lucrative TV and book deals. Oprah, never one to miss a PR trick, would look alternately concerned and astonished at the tittle-tattle revelations. 

A good time was had by all. We, the plebs, got to be sarky and say things like ‘Bet they break up’ and ‘Jeez, Harry’s thinning on top’, and they, the royals, got to trouser another million or two for their pains. Whatever had caused us to believe the end of the world was at hand would be safely quarantined and there would be chuckles and eye twinkling all round as we surfed the pounding waves of light relief. 

And there were Royal revelatory bonuses along the way. Andrew, looking slightly moth-eaten, chipped in with sleazy mates. Anne did her bit, wearing severe hats and barking at pensioners. Archie and Lilibet had new age birthday parties. Silks on not a penny less than forty-three million quid a minute were engaged to plead Harry’s defamation cases in court. No need to scout around for silly stuff to take our minds off misery; there it was laid out By Appointment –  rather like Benson and Hedges ciggies used to be when Princess Margaret was puffing them by the truckload. 

But those days are on the wane.  The Sussex’s have gone all quiet and civic minded, opening up their ritzy retreat at Montecito to pals made homeless by those dreadful fires, manning the soup kitchens and generally being swell California guys.

Well it has to stop. Hard rains are gonna fall and if we are to see this through we’ll need all the fun help we can get. Come back Meghan. Come back Harry. Please.