Meghan, Harry and Oprah – like driving past a road accident, I tried not to look, but couldn’t help it.
Like the squatting thighs of a constipated grey hound, I shuddered, squirmed, and trembled in agony, as yet again, I watched a member of our Royal family, wash their dirty laundry in public.
Perhaps most upsetting for me, was Prince Harry’s crumpled black socks, barley reaching above the ankles, his pale calves flashing and burning in the Californian sunshine.
Clashing horrendously with dusty brown shoes and a light grey suit straight out of Dominic Cummings’ wardrobe, what the hell was the poor guy thinking?
Had ‘The Firm,’ like a spurned wife, taken to his dressing room, and sliced off the sleeves of his Savile Row suits?
With a crease under the collar the size of the Grand Canyon, and sleeves with more wrinkles than a skulking French bull-dog, he was a sartorial lamb, dressed for the slaughter.
I thought Meghan was outstanding, her performance worthy of an Oscar.
Love her, or loathe her, she was the epitome of serenity and elegance.
Like an Amazonian Princess, cocooned in the flowing silk robes of a Japanese Empress, her radiance and Zen-like demeanor, contrasted cruelly with that of poor Hal, stumbling over his words and sweating away, like an overworked photocopier salesman.
I thought she was exceptionally articulate, despite the irritating use of the word “right?” at the end of every sentence, but I don’t for a minute, believe she had no idea of the questions coming her way from Oprah.
Dubbed “The Queen of All Media,” I see why she was one of North America’s first black multi-billionaires.
Assured, bristling with energy and strength, she put the young couple through their paces like a hip thrusting Patrick Swayze, and very clearly, no one was putting Meghan in the corner.
It was Harry who was left to scramble around the chicken coop for his dignity, whilst these two doyens of the American media, took centre stage.
In terms of what was said, I couldn’t really care less and don’t want to comment, but I’ll say this:
Harry should have kept schtum.
There is a dignity and power in silence, and our ex-senior member of the Royal family would do well to remember it.
As for his threads, he needs to burn that atrocity of a summer suit and get to Michelsberg Tailoring for a consultation.
Irrespective of what he said, for me, those socks, will go down in history as Black Tuesday 2.0.