Prince William, Prince Harry, Prince Andrew. As time goes by, they present themselves not quite as the Three Wise Men of royal life, but increasingly as the Huey, Dewey and Louie of some grim antics; the imperial Bee Gees with an eternal reprise, jive talkers just trying to stay alive in a world they find increasingly hostile.

Two estranged brothers and a disgraced uncle scavenge for leftovers at the royal banquet. With the best will in the world, they’re not exactly an inspiring couple, are they?

Call it what you will, but gold is slowly starting to break away from this soured game of thrones, this line of succession in a terminal recession. Every now and then the three masks slip and we see these princes for who and what they really are: a trio of spoiled man-children who demand responsibility from everyone else while doing as they please, an unholy trinity that is still not quite is capable of believing that the age of reverence is over.

Prince William is by far the best of them, not least because the burden of royal responsibility must rest on his shoulders. In his rather passive-aggressive way, he has never made any secret of the fact that he finds this a tough task, but who can blame him for worrying or seeing his birthright as a velvet band?

While his stricken father and recovering wife remain out of the spotlight, this is William’s moment of truth. But instead of rising to the challenge, he seems to be everywhere. To start with, that ill-advised statement about the conflict between Israel and Hamas; now blow up a royal event at short notice and without a proper explanation?

It’s all very strange. If William has a good reason for his absence, he should tell us or even give us a reassuring hint; the audience would understand and sympathize. Of course he has the right to a private life, but he is not a movie star who barks about privacy in times of crisis. He is the heir to the British throne – a man with a unique set of public responsibilities.

Soon he will be the head of the nation, a focus for national identity, unity and pride. So maybe he should stop acting like a celebrity and reign in that impenetrable attitude, along with his indulgent penchant for obsessive secrecy. If this is a sign of what will happen when he takes the throne, it is very worrying.

Then there’s Prince Andrew, who seizes the opportunity to insert himself, like a festering suppository, back into the pantomime ass end of royal life.

The sight of cheerful Andrew galloping into King Constantine’s memorial service in Windsor with all the seriousness of a game show host was as unwelcome as it was unedifying.

Andrew has no shame, because if he did, he would hide himself from public life forever. He would focus on his golf swing, his chronic problem with adrenaline deficiency and his research into sweat patterns, rather than impose his eerie, scandal-smoked presence on the royal family.

That would be the decent thing to do, but decency and Andrew are strangers to each other.

Which brings us to the clown known as Prince Harry. Court documents revealed this week that he demanded to know the identity of the person in the government responsible for downgrading his police protection.

“I’d like that person’s name,” he said, much in Tony Soprano fashion, perhaps in dream sequence ruff and tights, putting pressure on Paulie Walnuts.

What was Harry going to do? Was this person taken to his royal chambers in a tumbler and then tortured by having to listen to Meghan’s latest podcast about compassion in action?

Watch as Harry the Beagle prepares to deliver a proverbial knuckle sandwich to the upstart serf who refused to provide the security details he demanded. How utterly pathetic has this despicable fool become; a man who positions himself in public life as a glossy humanitarian, but in private will thwart anyone who dares to cross him or deny his desires.

‘Show Up, Do Good’ is the tacky motto on the Sussexes’ rebooted Archewell website. “Shut up, do as I say” would be a more honest and appropriate slogan.

Listen, guys. It’s not too late to learn that having the word “Prince” in front of your name isn’t just a passport to a blackout in the bulletins when the going gets tough, a free pass to the fleshpot island of a known sex abuser, or a fast track to celebrities and millions of fancy Hollywood dollars – although clearly it has been all of these things and more.

Put the word Prince first if your name carries more responsibilities, not less. And you would do us all a favor – and at the same time honor the memory of Queen Elizabeth, your loving grandmother and mother – if you would remember that every now and then.

Net als de rijke dooier die uit een gebarsten ei sijpelt, komt de volslagen vreemdheid van de koninklijke familie soms ongecontroleerd in het publieke domein terecht.

Dat gebeurde deze week met het trieste nieuws van de kankerdiagnose van koning Charles.

Het bracht niet alleen de gebruikelijke Windsor-mengelmoes van diepgewortelde non-speaks en strijdende partijen in beweging; van in kasjmier gewikkelde vrouwen die bruisten van woede, terwijl haastige bijeenkomsten voor hun mannen werden georganiseerd in overvolle salons terwijl stalmeesters rondzweefden en op hun horloge keken.

Het leek er ook op te suggereren dat de breuklijnen, zo terloops opengeblazen door de wraakzuchtige Sussexes, nooit zullen samensmelten of genezen, ongeacht welke nieuwe tragedie de familie ook overkomt.

In de gedoemde zee van koninklijke verzoening zijn we nu ver verwijderd van het ondiepe water.

Ik kan me gewoon voorstellen hoe het allemaal is gegaan. Toen prins Harry het slechte nieuws via de telefoon van koning Charles hoorde, nam hij impulsief de taak op zich om naar Londen te vliegen om zijn vader te bezoeken. Dat is niet nodig, hield Charles misschien vol. Met mij gaat het goed, lieve jongen. Geen gedoe, alstublieft.

Toch liet Harry zich niet ontmoedigen. Hij compenseert zijn ecologische voetafdruk al op green baloney.com en trekt zijn suède woestijnlaarzen aan.

Van Californië tot Clarence House, van het land van de saaie mensen tot het hart van het instituut van vervolging, precies de plek waar hij beweert de meeste hekel te hebben ter wereld, hier komt hij.

Niets kan hem tegenhouden, zelfs als je je moet afvragen wat hem precies motiveert en of zijn vlucht over de Atlantische Oceaan werd gevoed door kinderliefde of duizend liter schuldgevoel.

Hij leek zeker op een zelfopgelegde missie van barmhartigheid te zijn, maar wiens ziel probeerde hij te redden?

Dan wordt het nog vreemder. Harry vliegt meer dan 8.000 kilometer om zijn getroffen 'Pa' te zien en krijgt slechts een halfuurtje in het koninklijke schema. Nauwelijks tijd om zijn kopje thee koud te laten worden.

Welk gezin gedraagt ​​zich zo? Misschien wel iemand die erg nerveus is. Eén die ernstig verbrand is door wat eraan voorafging.

Want Harry's bedoelingen, hoe goedbedoeld ook, moeten door sommige paleisfunctionarissen als twijfelachtig zijn beschouwd. Hoe zouden ze dat niet kunnen zijn?

Ik twijfel er geen moment aan dat Harry een bezorgde en liefhebbende zoon is – maar is hij ook een oogster van biografische details, op zoek naar goudklompjes die in zijn volgende bestseller kunnen worden opgenomen? Zorgt hij ervoor, maakt hij de balans op, of maakt hij aantekeningen?

Hoewel de zorg voor het welzijn van zijn vader oprecht moet zijn, kan niet worden ontkend dat Harry's flamboyante vertoon van medeleven in de luchtmijlen zijn koninklijke geloofsbrieven op het wereldtoneel heeft opgepoetst; versterkte zijn status als lid van de Firma.

Voor Harry is prins zijn zijn enige USP in de VS, waar geen enkele hoeveelheid glimmende medailles die door John Travolta om zijn nek zijn gehangen het echte werk kan goedmaken.

Was het dit allemaal of niets van dit? Is de liefde erin geslaagd zich te manifesteren in dit griezelige, wanhopige, op microniveau beheerde scenario?

Ik hoop van wel, ook al kon niemand verwachten dat de koning en de koningin de vreselijke dingen die prins Harry de afgelopen jaren over hen heeft gezegd en geschreven volledig over het hoofd zouden zien.

En hoewel elke gebroken familie wrok koestert, wordt Harry's schelle eis om publieke verantwoording van zijn naasten en minder dierbaren met een oorverdovende stilte beantwoord.

En laten we niet vergeten dat het nog maar nauwelijks geleden is dat koning Charles en de prinses van Wales werden ontmaskerd als de koninklijke 'racisten', die Meghan en Oprah zo erg van streek maakten.

Nog geen twee maanden later liggen zowel Charles als Kate met ernstige medische problemen in het ziekenhuis. Zet dat Harry aan het denken? Of zit hij zo diep verwikkeld in zijn slachtofferverhaal dat hij niet kan inzien dat ook anderen slachtoffers kunnen zijn?

Daarover gesproken: alle sympathie voor koning Charles in zijn moment van persoonlijke crisis. Het kost mentaal tijd om een ​​diagnose van kanker te verwerken – en in het reine te komen met een toekomst die heel anders is dan die je voor jezelf had voorgesteld.

In deze begindagen van zijn nieuwe realiteit is het niet moeilijk voor te stellen dat de koning liever met zijn favoriete agapanthus praat dan te maken te krijgen met de emotionele lekkage van zijn ontrouwe maar plotseling berouwvolle jongste zoon.

Nog steeds was het een onthullende en bedroevende momentopname van het koninklijke leven. Harry haast zich vol liefde naar huis, naar zijn vader, om misschien eindelijk, net als Lady Macbeth, te beseffen dat wat er is gedaan niet ongedaan kan worden gemaakt.

De onuitgesproken woorden, de broederlijke koude schouder, het gekletter van een helikopter op Sandringham, de eenzaamheid van de hotelkamerservice in de stad van je geboorte – het duidt allemaal op een sombere weg voor de strijdende Windsors.

Tolstoj schreef beroemd dat gelukkige gezinnen allemaal hetzelfde zijn, terwijl elk ongelukkig gezin op zijn eigen manier ongelukkig is.

Toch neemt de koninklijke familie de ellende mee naar een geheel nieuw verguld tijdperk van somberheid, geheel door eigen toedoen.

Echte reden Bilbo en zijn jongere 'geliefde' zijn een afknapper

Fans van Jenna Ortega zijn 'gestoord' door de seksscène in haar nieuwste film. Vooral omdat de 21-jarige actrice het in Miller's Girl moet doen met de 52-jarige Martin Freeman, bekend van Bilbo Baggins en The Office.

Ze zijn allebei professionals, wat is het probleem?

Misschien komt het omdat ze er veel, veel jonger uitziet dan 21, terwijl Martin er veel, veel, veel, veel, veel uitziet (en nog een keer), veel ouder dan 52. Het zijn niet de jaren, lieverd, het zijn de kilometers – en Martin heeft veel op de klok. Maar dat draagt ​​toch alleen maar bij aan zijn ruige charme?

Misschien voelen de kijkers zich ongemakkelijk omdat de seksscène in kwestie, zoals de meeste seksscènes, totaal onnodig is.

En alsjeblieft, niemand zegt iets over Lord Of The Rings. Degenen die Bilbo echter weer met zijn conkers willen zien spelen, moeten Middle-earth vergeten en hier afstemmen.

Waarom sporrans veel heter zijn dan hoodies!

Mae West hield van een man in uniform, en ik ook. En niet alleen omdat het suggereert dat de idioten gewend zijn bevelen op te volgen, hoewel dat altijd aantrekkelijk is.

Er is gewoon iets aan militair maatwerk en gouden kikkers dat een vonk in het hart van de meest stoffige oude meid kan doen ontbranden. Het tegenovergestelde geldt echter ook.

'Hot Equerry' luitenant-kolonel Johnny Thompson werd onlangs gezien in moefti, gekleed in een werkelijk vreselijke skinny jeans en – verpleegster, de ruikende zouten! – een hoodie.

Hoodies zijn de favoriete tops voor peuters en tieners, Johnny, niet voor de knappe trots van het Royal Scottish Regiment.

Zoals mijn tante Morag altijd zei: een man is veel kleiner zonder zijn sporran. Dus, zoals elke goede Schotse vrouw, ga ik mijn ogen afwenden totdat Johnny terug is waar hij thuishoort. In zijn kilt.

Weten we zeker dat de bijna naakte vrouw van Kanye echt in orde is?

Er zijn steeds meer zorgen over de vrouw van Kanye West, Bianca Censori. Haar ouders maken zich zorgen om haar, haar vrienden maken zich zorgen – en ik ook.

Censori wordt vaak vrijwel naakt in het openbaar gezien, haar borsten misschien bedekt door een kussen, haar bescheidenheid door een klein stringetje, haar man aan haar zijde, zich koesterend in een of ander stinkend ritueel van bezetenheid of dominantie of God weet wat.

Deze week werd Censori gefotografeerd met West in Los Angeles, gekleed in weinig meer dan een doorzichtige plastic regenjas. Zijn gezicht werd uitgewist door een zwart masker.

Het is griezelig, het is verontrustend en het is verkeerd. Als dit een soort publiciteitsstunt of performancekunst is voor een hoger doel, dan is het te ver gegaan. Als het een grap is, is het niet grappig.

Censori ziet er niet uit alsof ze het naar haar zin heeft, terwijl het schrikbeeld van een gemaskerde man die een halfnaakte vrouw door een nachtelijke stadsstraat leidt volkomen weerzinwekkend is; het ziet er beledigend en vernederend uit.

Een fatsoenlijke man zou een vrouw niet op deze manier behandelen, terwijl een rationele vrouw zichzelf niet op deze manier zou laten behandelen. Laat het alsjeblieft stoppen.

• Het Britse platteland is een ‘racistische, koloniale’ witte ruimte waar mensen van kleur zich ‘niet op hun plaats’ kunnen voelen, zeggen natuurbeschermingsorganisaties. Oh God. Daar gaan we weer. Nu is zelfs een wandeling maken om de boshyacinten in Dingley Dell te bewonderen een racistische daad – maar de laatste keer dat ik keek, stond het platteland open voor iedereen die daarheen wilde gaan en ervan wilde genieten. Je kunt mensen niet dwingen een modderige wandeling te maken als ze dat niet willen. Je houdt van het buitenleven of je houdt niet van het buitenleven. En als onze groene ruimtes overwegend witte ruimtes zijn, komt dat dan niet omdat 82 procent van de Britten feitelijk blank is? De betrokken goede doelen gaan donaties mislopen door tijd en geld te verspillen aan dit soort kritische rassentheorie-onzin. Wat nu? Keir Starmer roept op tot overheidsfinanciering voor subsidies voor bobble hats en rubberlaarzen. Niemand zou verrast zijn.

Tijd om van hits geen excuses te maken

Zangeres Mae Muller zegt dat haar platenlabel haar ertoe heeft aangezet deel te nemen aan het 'traumatische' songfestival, waardoor ze haar 'authenticiteit' verloor.

Je herinnert je misschien dat Mae in 2023 op de tweede plaats eindigde na een niet al te overtuigende uitvoering van een saai en hopeloos nummer. In dezelfde geest geeft Rebecca Ferguson nu X Factor, racisme, alle anderen en noem maar op, de schuld voor het belemmeren van haar kansen op een pop-superster.

Is het niet de koude realiteit dat geen van deze artiesten de uithoudingsvermogen, het talent of de lef had om de top te bereiken en daar te blijven? Kijk naar Sam Ryder. Zijn ‘authenticiteit’ verloor hij niet toen hij een jaar voor Mae Muller deelnam aan het Eurovisie Songfestival. Hij werd tweede, maar groeide uit tot een grote ster. Niemand praat over zijn gebrek aan authenticiteit.

Het Italiaanse Maneskin was aanwezig op de X Factor en het Eurovisie Songfestival, maar overwon beide oncoole hindernissen om een ​​van de grootste rockgroepen ter wereld te worden.

Tegenwoordig maken ze hits en verzinnen ze geen excuses. Dat is het verschil.

What was it about billionaire Prince Albert of Monaco that attracted so many women?

Was it his personal charm – or his beautiful, bulging, deep pockets? Albert is the son of the beautiful Grace Kelly and the dashing Prince Rainier, but even his closest friends would be hard-pressed to determine exactly where his personal fortune ends and his personal magnetism begins. However, Albert never let this lack of charisma stop him from chasing (and capturing) the babies.

For decades he has built a reputation as a philanderer whose activities have been bombarded by extreme royal privilege; an unashamed lover who did what he wanted, with who he wanted, when he wanted.

And with claims emerging this week about secret bank accounts used to fund his former lovers and illegitimate children, one can only be grateful that Prince Andrew – his fellow royal madman across the water – saw little of the determination and energy Prince Albert has when it comes to being a playboy.

To conclude. Albert's 13-year marriage to Princess Charlene has produced twins Gabriella and Jacques, aged nine, but it seems neither parent has been happy. Should that be a surprise? Over the years, Charlene has been hospitalized exhausted, never smiling, and missing for a strangely long time with sinus problems, amid speculation that at least some of her problems have not been resolved by Albert's previous conquests.

At last public count, he has two illegitimate children: Jazmin Grimaldi, 31, was the product of a brief affair with real estate agent Tamara Rotolo, while Alexandre Grimaldi-Coste, 20, was born after his affair with Nicole Coste, a former Air France executive. agent. flight attendant.

Of course, you never know where and when Cupid's arrow will strike, even if you are a prince. Yet all this points to a certain energetic opportunism and determined romantic succession by the Monegasque ruler. Compare this to our own royal lumpen lothario – and breathe a sigh of relief: there are no love children!

Mad Prince Andrew says he can't even remember meeting Virginia Giuffre, who was trafficked to London as a 17-year-old and ordered to have sex with him in a stable bath in Belgravia.

It's the kind of event that makes your knees shake, like anniversaries or special birthdays or the day he proposed or crashed the car, that you hope someone will never forget. But when it comes to his own peccadilloes, real or imagined, the man formerly known as Randy Andy can't remember even meeting Virginia. Even though she claims she was practically presented to him on a silver platter, like a warm sofa at a palace reception.

In the civil assault case that followed many years later, Andrew maintained his innocence but paid Virginia a £12 million settlement; a high price for the most expensive amnesia in royal history since Henry VIII forgot he was married to Catherine of Aragon when he met Anne Boleyn.

Still, I wonder if all this has something to do with British restraint, as opposed to Mediterranean flamboyance. While Prince Albert of Monaco popped champagne corks in a silk tie while chatting to flight attendants and real estate agents, our royals tend to be tweener and more circumspect when it comes to tea and push, push crumpet. Not to mention shy. Like shy voles during mating season, they rarely venture outside their own burrows when they are in the mood for romance.

Look at the king, who had a long affair with Camilla, the wife of one of his best friends, Andrew Parker Bowles. The rumor suggests that who ever had a relationship with Princess Anne. Charles was even a helpful godfather to Camilla and Andrew's son, Tom.

If they weren't all so posh, they'd go on a seaside holiday to Devon together, drinking cups of tea with a shared tartan traveling rug over their knees. This is how the British do it: minimal effort, keeping it fun, a really good show, cheering all around, can I seduce you with another woman?

It's almost quaint compared to the scandal grenade that exploded in Monaco. The pin was pulled by a disgruntled accountant who worked for Prince Albert and the Grimaldi family and was privy to all their darkest financial secrets. (Game Of Thrones rule number one: never grumble at your accountant.)

Yet Claude Palermo was so much more than an accountant. During the twenty years he worked for Prince Albert, he was his boss's Cardinal Richelieu to King Louis Prince Albert. shady people.

He also knew who was spending what, including Princess Charlene's apparent inability to stick to a £1.2 million-a-year budget while allegedly employing illegal immigrants for £85 a day. Meanwhile, enormous sums were apparently siphoned out of the swamp to provide Albert's illegitimate children with luxury homes and their respective mothers with incomes.

Frankly, I admire Albert for generously caring for his offspring – that's the only good thing in his favor.

It may be unfair, but in similar circumstances I can imagine the cash-strapped Windsors bickering over heating bills and school fees, grudgingly paying and questioning every last expense. Another pair of sneakers? Can't the boy cope with last year's arguments? And so forth.

So while the scandal continues to engulf the Grimaldis and the citizens of Monaco have every right to feel shortchanged by the disgusting extravagance, let's be thankful that Prince Andrew was simply too lazy to get himself into as much romantic trouble as the priapic , unstoppable Prince. Albert. And just too boring to think beyond Pitch@Palace in the business and commercial field.

Yet this Monegasque mess is a grim warning of what a puffed-up prince with little purpose in life will be up to, whether he lives in Monaco, Mummy's House or anywhere else.

By Jan Moir for the Daily Mail

Published: 1:56 PM EST, January 18, 2024 | Updated: 2:43 PM EST, January 18, 2024

 

 

Jackie magazine burst onto the scene sixty years ago this month, sailing into the world on a layer of strawberry lip gloss and a fanfare of pop music.

The latter was usually supplied by hunks called David – Mr Cassidy, Mr Essex and Mr Bowie – while the lippy came as a freebie, riveted to the cover of the magazine.

From the very first issue it was a sensation. In 1964, there were few titles on magazine shelves that specifically addressed the needs of teenage girls – a new phenomenon in itself.

The upstart Jackie, with its vibrant mix of pop, fashion, adverts for Scholl sandals and Supersoft shampoo, along with sound advice from suffering aunts Cathy & Claire, hit the market right on track. It was recognizable, affordable and completely remarkable.

The cover of the very first issue featured an illustration by Cliff Richard, slogans promising perfume tips for a “more kissable you,” outfits to make you “beautiful in the rain and snow,” and some “getaway exclusives for everyone.” . the popsters'. Very hey!

This great Jackie world, where girls prettified themselves for boys and advice was doled out to troubled teens by people who weren't mental health experts, wouldn't find much traction in today's harsh, plugged-in, frighteningly advanced teenage world . , but Jackie belonged to a more innocent era.

One in which girls were encouraged to practice kissing the backs of their hands and moving their eyelashes 'against his chin'. What? Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time plus – bonus points – it didn't get you pregnant.

In the 1970s, Jackie sold more than a million copies a week and to this day the book still holds a special place in the hearts of generations of female readers who couldn't wait for it to arrive through the letterbox every Thursday.

Women who read Jackie at an impressionable age have never forgotten it, even though the last one was published in the summer of 1993. That made a total of 1,534 glorious issues, an entire world encapsulated in its glossy pages. And I even worked on some of them myself, a walk-on part during the two years I worked at the magazine publisher.

Because although Jackie had an address in London where fans were supposed to send their letters, it was actually written, edited and produced entirely in my hometown of Dundee by a company called DC Thomson.

The impressive headquarters in the city center houses a jumble of local and national newspaper titles, popular comics and magazines such as Diana, Bunty, Blue Jeans and The Beano. And there, at the end of a hallway on the third floor, stood the mighty Jackie herself, notable for the gigantic bags of mail that came in every day.

In a small office with a rickety wooden floor and an unlit fireplace, the staff pored over proofs, devised pop quizzes and encouraged readers to make face masks out of avocados or give precise instructions on how to clean “the only pebble on the beach.” are. .

Cathy & Claire's advice page received more than 400 letters every week, a total almost matched by the Dear Doctor column, which dealt with what was known in the office as 'trouble below the waist'. Because even Jackie couldn't ignore the fact that the Pill had been made free on the NHS in 1974 – although none of readers' most explicit questions ever made it onto the pages. Jackie was all about romance, not sex.

The furthest they ventured into that naughty territory was advising girls whether or not they should let him kiss you on the first date – the standard advice was to never do anything unless you felt 'ready'. And I don't remember anything being published about same-sex relationships, which simply didn't exist in Jackieland.

“Jackie had a certain tone, it was like a friendly big sister,” says Ria Welch, who worked on the title from 1987 to 1992 as fiction editor, beauty editor and then deputy editor.

“And it was very much based in reality.” She recalls a problem letter from the 1980s from a reader who was in love with Adam Ant and was convinced she would marry him. No, that's not the case, was Jackie's clear answer. It's just a crush. Take it out!

It's hard to imagine that any publication today would give such a strong response, but I think Jackie understood his readers on a deep and intuitive level. It understood that what most of them wanted was not really advice, but confirmation or renunciation; they wanted to know where the boundaries lay in the difficult, unknown transition from being a girl to being a woman.

In this regard, Jackie was not perfect – and even today there are still critics. A few years ago, host Nadia Sawalha said on Loose Women that she had long-term and damaging body image problems because of advice about big bums she read in Jackie. “They look really grotesque in tight jeans that are straight or tapered,” the magazine had advised in its typically blunt manner.

No one could accuse Jackie of soft soaping or excess of tact, but for many young women it was a good and true friend to have in the hormonal storm of adolescence. Today's all-knowing teenagers can get any information they need by tapping their phone, but things were very different back then.

Saucer-eyed, fresh out of school and no older than Jackie readers themselves, I was only there for a short time. What do I remember? That each issue had a turnaround time of sixteen weeks (from the first review in the Dundee office to the magazine racks across the country), yet remained fresh and up to date.

That Donny Osmond appeared on the front page of Jackie almost as often as the date. The biggest sellout of all time happened when they put David Cassidy on the cover during the hysteria of his 1974 UK tour. And that the women who worked there seemed so intimidating and terrifyingly sophisticated.

There was Alison, the beauty editor who had London phone numbers in her contacts book without the 01 prefix, which I found incredibly impressive. There was Sandy, the deputy editor who was also an officer in the Territorial Army.

Then there was Jackie's first female editor, Nina Myskow, who spent weeks lugging a Harrods tote bag around Dundee – she'd been to London! – and told her staff how David Bowie had bought her champagne and she had rejected him because he was wearing chipped nail polish. She played tennis with Elton John and it was rumored around the office – never denied – that he had written Your Song for her.

But sometimes, when you look back at Jackie through the prism of half a century, it seems almost as ancient and incomprehensible as hieroglyphics. The art of kissing; Join the Big Boy Hunt; Kim Wilde talks about beauty – what the hell was that about?

However, the magazine – like all its sister titles – was not without a strong moral code and readers were encouraged to be confident and ambitious in a world where friendships with other girls were considered more important than relationships with boys.

And how commendable it was that fashion always focused on the cheaper side of the high street; it was instilled in us never to forget that our readers did not have much pocket money.

So there were tips on how to brighten up jeans by sewing an apple appliqué on them and regular articles on affordable treats like Aqua Manda perfume or a pack of Miners Face Shiner. There were certainly no £1,000 handbags or Victoria Beckham smoky eyeshadow quads for £56 shoved under readers' noses.

Today's troublesome and greedy TikTok culture sometimes makes me desperate for teens, but it's too late to turn back the clock.

However, Jackie's legacy lives on. There are Facebook groups in honor of the magazine, a musical was launched in 2015 and there are even plans for DC Thomson's own Emanata Studios to launch a television series – although proposals are still in their infancy.

But could any musical, show or tribute ever truly capture the magic and strangeness of a girls' teen magazine that reigned triumphantly in a world where there were no cell phones, no texting, no selfies and no Instagram?

With the field to herself, Jackie was the touchstone and the mother lode, all in one joyful package. And that will never happen again.

Just when the royal family must have thought they were heading into a peaceful and joyful festive season, you hear the imperiled angels singing.

Two years after the Duke and Duchess of Sussex first opened up to Oprah Winfrey about the “concerns” some members of the royal family had about the color of baby Archie’s skin, the royal racist row has flared up again – in spectacular fashion. manner.

After the names of the two royals in question were ‘accidentally’ leaked in Dutch copies of Omid Scobie’s new royal book Endgame, both Piers Morgan on his TalkTV show and the New York Post went one step further and actually named the characters involved . I don’t blame them.

The identity of the mysterious royals has been all over social media and the internet for days. The situation was getting ridiculous. Millions could discover who they were with the click of a keyboard button – and once they did, what then? And then what?

Of course, some may think that King Charles and Catherine, Princess of Wales – formerly known as X and Y – only got what was coming. Still, most of us will surely sympathize with the plight of these two unfortunate senior royals.

Their undoubtedly well-intentioned questions about baby Archie’s skin color or the color of his beautiful hair, or whatever else they said, have turned into an international incident, first by the Duke and Duchess of Sussex themselves and now by stalwart writer Mr Scobie.

The author denies that the leaking of the names was intentional or part of a massive publicity stunt, but offers no explanation for how the remarkable mistake happened.

“I’m as frustrated as anyone else,” he said during an interview with This Morning (ITV) on Thursday. “But I wouldn’t say I’m upset.”

No one needs to be reminded that the Sussexes first made the accusations of racism to Oprah in 2021, as part of the victim narrative that characterized their flashy splashdown in the US.

Yes, we were told in detail about the Sussexes’ pain and the enormous offense they took, but we were never given the context in which the words were said.

It is truly hard to believe that the comments were not made out of love and were never intended to hurt, patronize or cause division. And if Charles and Kate are guilty of a deadly gaucherie, then so are Harry and Meghan because they enthusiastically embraced the most toxic interpretation of the words; the implication that a baby who was not white was not welcome.

As if Harry’s own father and sister-in-law would ever think such a thing. It’s unbelievable.

Yet Harry and Meghan were so genuinely saddened by this private matter that they brought it to the world’s attention, along with a deep dive into the unconscious biases the Duchess felt she suffered as a less than cheerful Windsor woman.

But within months, both Harry and Meghan had recovered enough to accept a major American award for combating racial injustice and institutionalized racism – and with it the inference that all these curses had been suffered within the royal establishment.

I was there in the ballroom in New York the night they happily skipped onto the stage to accept the Kennedy family’s Ripple Of Hope award, a trophy that boosted their own humanitarian credentials while continuing to smear the Royals at home with accusations of bigotry and bigotry. smears that stick like mud to this day.

The Sussexes didn’t care then, and they don’t care now.

We know that a glimmer of hope can turn into a wave of change,” they said at the time, and how true that has proven to be. This is all tricky territory to negotiate—and even comment on with caution—if you’re not a person of color. If you’re white, you’re not allowed to have an opinion on sensitive race relations issues, and if you do, it’s the wrong one.

Before mentioning King Charles and the Princess of Wales, Piers Morgan stated that he did not believe there was “any racist intent” behind their words. That’s why Dr. Shola Mos-Shogbamimu, the provocative commentator and once guest on Morgan’s show, calls him a “white privileged dog whistling fragile man baby.” And this is just day one.

You would have to be far less cynical than I am not to believe that Charles and Kate’s names were always going to come out, that there was indeed a rock-solid determination that the names would come out and that it was only a matter of time before they did. And now that everyone knows – but didn’t know for days – we have entered deep into the realm of a very black comedy indeed. Except I can’t say that in case anyone gets offended, so let’s just call it royal farce.

Before we return once more to the tights and the fights and who said what about Oprah, it is useful to note how much of Endgame is not about the beleaguered royals, but about dear Omid Scobie instead.

The author ushers himself into the narrative with the clammy urgency of a pushy mother urging her progeny into a lead role in the school play. On page after page, Omid and his omnipresent id are never far from the heart of the action, and always painted in a heroic light.

We learn of the abuse he receives on social media sites, his struggle to be taken seriously within the royal Press pack, his fury when he is excluded from same, his dull little thoughts on British society and Brexit, his dismay when senior courtiers don’t listen to his upstart advice, how he personally felt when the Queen died and why he wore a black jumper from Marks & Spencer on television broadcasts immediately following her death.

His belief that anyone is interested in any of this Scobie minutiae is touching, if a little misguided. Yet still he doggedly types on, revealing that it was because his polyester non-iron suit was in the boot of his car which was being serviced at a garage 20 miles away. Which garage, Omid? Only kidding – I don’t give a toot.

You could say all of this reveals the royal author to be the kind of habitual breakfast television sofa guest who has convinced himself that people are interested in him for who he is rather than what he does. Truly, the vanity of endless punditry is a heady drug for some.

Within days of its publication, Endgame has already been described as a poisonous exercise in vengeance and, believe me, that is almost one of the positives. 

Two senior members of the Royal Family involved in an alleged racism scandal have been ‘accidentally’ named in Dutch copies of the book, resulting in it being pulled from bookshops across Holland – and, of course, a nice wave of publicity lapping around the world.

The author wails that translation errors are to blame, but should he be believed? Can he be believed?

Certainly, there is much in his barbarous chapters that makes one raise an eyebrow in disbelief – and even occasional horror – including his parti pris reshaping of events through a golden Sussex prism, alongside an endless enfilade of insults that relentlessly pins down Sussex enemies.

Ultimately this is a history book that will not go down in the history books, being little more than an exercise in grievance by proxy that feels slippery to the touch.

In a chapter called Gloves Off, for example, Scobie parlays the grisly Spotify debacle — a business deal which ended in failure and acrimony, with a Spotify executive describing the Duke and Duchess of Sussex as a pair of ‘grifters’ – as merely a regrettable mistake which Harry and Meghan had been bounced into ‘after the royal institution cut them off from all funding and security in 2020’.

Then after signing a contract worth $20million to develop Spotify podcasts, ‘neither of the two expected the company’s executives to turn down so many of their ideas’. Who knew there wasn’t a global market for Meghan’s curated pensées on gender inequality in rescue chickens or Harry’s big idea to interview Putin over a wellness-focused cup of chai while single-handedly solving the world’s problems? Waaaaaagh! It’s all everyone else’s fault. Stop looking at us!

Scobie’s grand theme in Endgame is that the downfall of the monarchy is nigh and if it falls to him to light the touch-paper on their bonfire of ruin, then so be it.

In the past, he says, he has held back on revealing ‘some of the darker truths at the heart of the institution of the British monarchy’ but readers, that age of Omid-deference is over. ‘Part of this book will burn my bridges for good. But to tell the full story, there’s no holding back. Not anymore. We’re in the endgame,’ he writes, with the kind of flourish that demands ink, a quill and a mad cackle. Cue cymbal crash and lightning flash, pray bid thy servants to make haste with the popcorn.

I happily braced myself for a barrage of royal truth bombs, but staggering revelations came there none. Despite such juicy chapter headings such as Ghost At The Feast, Skilled Survivors and A Dangerous Game, there are no surprises here, nor any glimmer of gradual enlightenments about previously murky situations.

Instead, what lands on the Endgame pages are the spare bits of Spare alongside reiterations and amplifications of the Duke of Sussex’s pet peeves.

There is a dense, mad, sweaty chapter about Press briefings, Press conspiracy and royal Press rotas – of interest to practically nobody except Prince Harry – and more of the same old rehashed hurts and complaints concerning that old miff-magnet known as Meghan. Can’t we all please, please move on? Apparently not.

‘There was a coldness towards Meghan from the very early stages that I always found quite surprising,’ Scobie has said in interviews to promote Endgame, before squarely blaming the Princess of Wales for this institutional chill.

‘I always found it interesting that when Meghan was going through the sort of toughest days of her life and struggling with mental health issues… someone within the family who’s experienced that glare as a newcomer for the first time herself… wasn’t able to turn around and help a family member. To me, I think that speaks a lot to someone’s character.’

It speaks a lot about something, that’s for sure. And if Kate was hesitant to welcome Meghan into her confidences and inner circle, hasn’t that reticence been entirely justified? Not in the perfumed Omid-dome where Meghan and Harry can do no wrong, and everyone else is a stone-cold rotter.

One of the very worst things about Endgame is the author’s egregious, panting concern about the mental health issues that famously dogged the Duke and Duchess of Sussex before merrily sticking the boot into others who might have issues of their own.

He more or less claims, for example, that Prince William is a raving basket case who needs to be on a shorter chain. ‘William’s emotional volatility could be one of his greatest challenges,’ is his silky insinuation, before claiming that his empty cipher of a wife was so coachable and malleable that she was ‘known on social media as Katie Keen’. Even the most cursory check proves this to be demonstrably untrue, as Odious Omid must know.

Elsewhere, keen to show off his insider connections, he details the day in 2019 when ‘senior’ members of the Sussex team inform him of Meghan’s emotional state. ‘It’s really bad, Omid,’ they tearfully tell him on page 162, shortly before the Duchess of Sussex herself rings up a few paragraphs later.

‘Hi, Omid!’ a female voice chirped. ‘It’s Meghan.’ I put my iced coffee down,’ he writes, ‘not quite sure if the call was a prank.’

Indeed. Perhaps Meghan usually communicates with him by carrier pigeon and osmosis, by the sheer power of thought, by gossamer notes pinned to moonbeams or by what is written in the stars.

Actually, throughout Endgame the author makes it clear that he is informed via a mesh of Sussex aides, sources and friends – but surely they must brief with the Sussexes’ blessing, otherwise they would be dropped from inner-circle roles?

Yet all parties pretend this is not the case and take us for fools. That is one reason why Endgame is so unsettling and weird.

Omid Scobie is always talking to his precious Sussex connections, while simultaneously fuming about newspapers calling him the Sussexes’ ‘mouthpiece’, ‘cheerleader’ and – worst of all – ‘pal’.

‘Another lie,’ he rages, ‘largely created to delegitimise the details I was sharing from sources close to the couple that often went against narratives that tabloids were reporting.’

And here you have the moral void and the hypocrisy at the heart of this book – and indeed, the entire Sussex industrial grievance complex.

When royal aides acting for the King or the Prince of Wales brief the Press, it is always a part of a conspiracy designed to harm the Sussexes and hide the truth.

Yet when Scobie is briefed by his ‘senior sources’ in the Sussex camp it is always for a higher moral purpose.

He likes to put clear blue water between himself and the ratpack of royal reporters, but the dam he has built is so porous as to be irrelevant. The worst thing of all is that I agree with him on many points. Yes, we do know too much about King Charles and Queen Camilla’s torrid romantic history to ever take them quite as seriously as we should.

Yes, we were lied to about Camilla becoming Queen. No argument from me that Kate can be a little bit boring or that the monarchy must strive to revive if it is to survive.

Yet it is hard to take any of Scobie’s serious points seriously when the rest of this book is so laughably partisan; a gloves-off attack on those whom the Sussexes believed have wronged them, chiefly Charles and Camilla, followed by evil Kate and William and then assorted uncivil servants, including Simon Case.

Why him? ‘There was just something about him I didn’t trust – and most of it was in his eyes,’ writes Scobie. Such a pitch of petty virulence goes deeper than mere score-settling and occasionally even seems unhinged, but at least there were some happy moments. Scobie recounts the time in 2016 when he was ‘the only reporter’ to accompany William and Kate to India’s Kaziranga National Park. Soon they spotted the one-horned rhinos for which the region is famous.

‘The beautiful female rhinoceros slowly stomped around in front of us and then stopped to poop. I looked over at Kate, who was in a fit of muted giggles. For someone usually so poised and inscrutable, it felt like the mask momentarily fell away, and it was a refreshing sight.’

Scobie joined in with the laughter. ‘We all ended up pretty much holding our breath, trying not to let out immature chuckles after each massive plop,’ he writes. Plop, plop, plop. I know how he feels.

Sarah, Duchess of York, guest edited and co-hosted a special edition of This Morning (ITV) on Monday. I want to be honest. I want to be nice. But when it comes to the Duchess in a live television situation, these two virtues are mutually and volcanically exclusive.

From 10am until the end of the show, 150 minutes later, the Ferg launching himself onto daytime television, like Icarus in reverse, was every bit as freaking awful as I had hoped.

Hard to pick a highlight between the word-mangling, corgi-wrangling-spaghetti cook-in and the interview with Sir Cliff Richard (Fergie: ‘You really are as humble and friendly as you’ve always been, how do you that?’ Sir Cliff: ‘It’s easy for me.’ But her brief performance as a panicked aunt who had to make a phone call was excellent.

“Actually, she’s been around quite a bit and she’s here to help,” said presenter Dermot O’Leary, making Fergie sound like a helpful pony with a dodgy past and the foaming bullets to match – and to be fair, that’s not a million miles from the truth.

“Ask me anything, call about love, relationships, difficult times,” the Duchess trembled. Careful screening of phone calls by ITV has undoubtedly prevented thugs swooping in to ask what to do when your ex-husband allegedly pays out £12million to a woman he claims he has never met, but many viewers lived in hope.

Still, I felt grateful that the late Queen went to her grave without witnessing her appearance on national television to urge Suzanne from Newcastle to invest in a pair of fruity knickers to bring the sexy back into her marriage.

‘Yes. Get a nice, provocative pair of underwear from your dresser, blow-dry the hair and take it out for a treat,” said the Duchess and for a moment I thought she was talking about a corgi, and not Suzanne’s insensitive hubs.

Further advice included taking time off from work and visiting lots of ‘nice, nice restaurants and nice hotels’. It is clear that there is no cost of living crisis, work responsibilities or childcare issues in Fergieland.

“There must be more treats,” she kept repeating. ‘Treats. Treats. Treats.” She also revealed that another secret to a happy marriage was leaving a bunch of little notes in each other’s pockets. I wonder how many times she reached into the pocket of her favorite trench coat and found one that said, “Please get out of my house.”

Still, you have to laugh. Fergie has her good points and strengths like everyone else, but she’s a woman whose life is one long, torn ribbon of bad decisions and bad judgment – ​​she’s about the last person on earth you’d ask for advice on anything.

What now? After the break, the Duchess of Sussex tells viewers how to maintain a healthy relationship with your in-laws, while Genghis Khan shares his dinner tips and kebab recipes.

Flanked closely by O’Leary and co-host Alison Hammond, the Duchess spent much of her time in the studio, on the sofa or sitting behind a large bowl of fruit, her eyes darting back and forth in panic.

In her green outfit and pixie boots she looked like Mad Mother Elf, a panto character in search of a plot, which also kind of sums up her life so far.

But she was good at that royal talk; the kind of banter that comes in handy when you’re opening a trade fair in Manchester on a wet Wednesday morning.

Fergie kept it super lame about the Windsors (“The King and Queen love their grandchildren and I love that”), but ventured an opinion – uh oh – on artificial intelligence (AI), which some see as the greatest threat to humanity since the neutron bomb. Not her.

“I don’t think everyone watching should be afraid of AI,” she said. “Maybe as we move forward it can be a useful tool.”

As the show itself progressed, it became clear that while the Duchess of York has had an interesting life, she seems to have learned little from the experience and nothing seems to have made an impression in the great void of her royal being. As guest editor, she chose the topics covered in the show, including rehoming dogs, 65 years of Sir Cliff Richard, making a classic carbonara and heart failure. On the healthcare front, the Duchess used her position as ambassador for the British Heart Foundation to highlight the importance of public defibrillators and their use.

‘Do you shave the chest first if it is quite hairy?’ she wondered chicly.

In the cooking section, she enticed Chef Marcus Bean to make “spaghetti carbonara, a personal favorite of mine” and surely one of the simplest dishes in the world? But after it was made, the Duchess of York was impressed.

“I think it’s really great that you showed me how to do it and this is the first time I’ve seen it happen,” she said, an incredible insight into the upstairs life of a 65-year-old woman who doesn’t . know how to cook spaghetti.

“It’s your show, I’m the fluff,” she said to Dermot and Alison at one point, which I think overplayed her hand a bit. Yet this was perhaps the most exciting episode of This Morning in the show’s history.

It still seems weird and somehow wrong that news about the British Royal Family is discussed first on U.S. outlets such as talk show host Kelly Ripa’s podcast and on the pages and website of People magazine — next to stories about the Kardashians and actor Will Smith denying he slept with a man.

However, this is the world the Duke and Duchess of Sussex live in, this is the prism through which they are now viewed, this is where the absurd vanilla puffery of their softest-scoop ice cream is peddled in the hope that it will be swallowed whole.

Reactions may vary, as well as recollections. Some might even choke on the first mouthful.

Omid Scobie’s new book Endgame is out at the end of this month and an extract has appeared in People magazine.

American readers might be surprised to learn that, according to this highly partisan account, the death of Queen Elizabeth II was not about the passing of a much-loved monarch and a sombre moment for British people and our shared history — it was all about Prince Harry.

Although Harry and Meghan have indicated they had nothing to do with the book, there is a great deal about who told him what and when about our 96-year-old Queen’s final decline.

Also his travel arrangements to Balmoral, his disappointments about this and that, his sour surprise that not only was his welcome home far from warm, but that Meghan’s presence at the Queen’s deathbed was surplus to requirements, too. God knows what could have caused such family froideur!

Anyone with any ideas should write them on a silenced- not-silent postcard and send it to: The Toxic Racist Windsor Rotters, c/o Broken Dog Bowl Alley, London.

According to Endgame, Harry was especially peeved that his brother did not respond to his texts when he was trying to cadge a lift to Scotland on the RAF jet that flew Prince William, Prince Andrew and the Wessexes.

You have to laugh. What did Harry expect? If you shovel endless steaming manure onto the family fruit patch, surely you must expect a rich crop of raspberries in return?

Every action has a reaction and every piece of treachery is another brick in the royal ramparts.

The walls between the brothers are now so high that apparently William refuses to even ‘properly talk’ with Harry, while Harry is still moping about, seeking ‘an apology or accountability’. From William to him, rather than the other way around. Cue even more sardonic laughter.

No doubt more Endgame extracts and leaks will be coming soon, but I am exhausted by it already.

Dear God, surely not more Sussexian victimhood? When are they ever going to wake up and smell the wellness- focused instant latte or count their many blessings?

Harry and Meghan now have two beautiful, healthy children, a gorgeous home in California, a chicken coop, free tickets to Beyonce and Katy Perry pop concerts and millions in the bank.

They have rich and powerful supporters on their side, including billionaire television producer Tyler Perry.

It was Perry who facilitated their initial entry into America, providing his lavish California estate as a sanctuary. Not many refugees fleeing tyranny are the beneficiaries of such largesse!

Perry was on Kelly Ripa’s show this week, revealing how Meghan got in touch with him after he sent her a note of support.

They had not long been friends, but that didn’t stop Perry becoming Princess Lilibet’s godfather.

Meghan is not the first ambitious mother who selected a wealthy and well-connected patron to become a godfather to her children — but the shock is how little it took.

A few phone calls and the loan of a house? Honey, I pimped the kids.

What I am wondering is how much more of this can we all take? Harry and Meghan have found their freedom, they have made their great escape — can’t they now just enjoy it all instead of endlessly picking at the royal scab and whining to their proxy, Omid Scobie? Or to their proxy’s proxy?

Of course, as a one-dimensional author of limited scope, Scobie must stoke the fires of grievance and discontent between the exiled Sussexes and the core royals, otherwise he doesn’t have a book, a narrative, a purpose, or indeed a pay cheque.

Even he must be alarmed that the Duke and Duchess of Sussex are now denying that they are ‘affiliated’ with him in any way, although we have been here before. Denials that the Sussex camp had helped with his previous biography, Finding Freedom, turned out to be untrue.

Whatever, however, moreover — I think we can all agree that this endless drip of gripe and spite from a prince is the sign of a man who lost his way a long, long time ago.

The £695 towels of derision

Surely Balenciaga is trolling us all with its new towel-skirt look?

The unisex item is made of towelling terry cotton fabric and designed to look like a bath towel wrapped around your waist. A towel wrapped around your waist that costs £695, I might add.

Before you throw in the towel, agree with me that even though the Balenciaga logo is discreetly embroidered on the front, some people simply have much too much money.

Esther Rantzen has talked about scammers perusing the obituary sections in local and national newspapers to con the recently bereaved, especially widows. I know this to be true — it happened to a friend of mine.

Samantha was still grieving following her husband’s death from cancer at the age of 67. A few days after his funeral, someone rang her up on the landline at home. ‘Hello Samantha,’ he said. ‘First of all, I want to say that I knew William and I am very sorry to hear about his death.’

My friend was on red alert straight away — no one ever called her husband William. Bill or Billy, yes. William, no. Never.

The caller smoothly went on to explain that ‘William’ had privately taken out a life insurance policy with his company and that she was eligible for a payout — after one outstanding final payment was met. Samantha told him in no uncertain terms to get lost and later surmised that the scammer must have read Bill’s funeral notice in the local paper.

She was lucky, but let’s be careful out there. Other widows and widowers, at the lowest ebb in their lives, might not be quite so fortunate.

Meanwhile, the brazenness and cruelty of these swindlers, not to mention their utter lack of humanity, makes the heart sink.

Fresh hope for second homeowners with properties in Spain and France. Along with Italy, these countries are now reconsidering the spiteful 90-day Brexit rule, which meant that Brits with properties abroad could only visit them for a limited period every year.

Now that the local economies are hurting, the British — and their luvvly jubbly pound notes — are being welcomed back with open arms.

It hasn’t been pleasant, but surely they will fare better than those with second homes in the UK. Some councils in England are threatening second homers with double council tax bills, while in Scotland they just want them out; a Clearances for the 21st century.

No doubt new legislation enabling all this will be the first thing Keir Starmer rubber stamps when he sweeps into power at the next election, heralding a new dawn for the politics of envy.

Di death like losing friend 

There is a moving moment in the new Netflix series of The Crown, during the funeral of Princess Diana. As they march behind her coffin, Prince William (played by Rufus Kampa) asks his grandfather Prince Philip (Jonathan Pryce) why all these people in the crowds, people who never knew his mother, are crying.

‘They are not crying for her,’ says Philip. ‘They are crying for you.’

Very prescient of writer Peter Morgan, but only partly true, perhaps. I think they were crying for themselves, too. Many people identified with Diana, the outsider who didn’t quite fit in, the interloper who was banished from the court. In addition to this, she had extraordinary empathy and an ability to connect with people.

Millions who never met Diana felt a kinship with her, and when she died, it was like losing a friend or a sister. Even now it is hard to think of anyone, before or since, who had the same effect.

Jeff Bezos may be the third-richest man in the world, but what a pity he hasn’t got someone on the payroll to tell him: ‘Lose the cowboy hat, Jeff. You look ridiculous.’

The Amazon founder, 59, and his fiancee Lauren Sanchez, 53, were posing for a Vogue photoshoot that had a regrettable western theme; at first glance I thought it was the promo shot for a Kenny Chesney and Steve Tyler Country & Western duet. ‘I’ve made her vulnerable and soft,’ said Bezos of his soon-to-be bride, as if she were a favourite cushion. Perhaps she is! For reasons unknown, Vogue was keen to position the Bezoses as just another couple of kooky but lovable eco-billionaires.

Lauren told the glossy mag they use green aviation fuel when possible and that their $500 million Koru superyacht can sail using only wind power. ‘We’ve done it and it is magical,’ she cooed. I’ll bet it is.

The peak of gender idiocy

The BBC has had to defend radio presenter Emma Barnett after an endometriosis charity’s trans CEO complained about being pressed on using the word ‘woman’ to describe sufferers of the female-only disease.

Steph Richards, 71, has already sparked controversy by the very fact of being appointed to the top job at Endometriosis South Coast, but she told Emma it was OK because ‘I am a feminist’ and that trans men can get the disease, too. God knows how Emma Barnett — who suffers from the disease herself — managed to keep her cool, but she did.

When Richards boasted that ‘transphobia’ had boosted the profile of the charity, Barnett pointed out that no one was talking about endometriosis, but everyone was talking about Richards.

That is what happens when foolish wokists put an opportunistic trans activist into a position of power at a women’s charity because of peak gender idiocy and nothing else.

A lost memoir of Edward VIII has come to light and for the first time we hear the authentic inner voice of the man who had briefly been King.

And what does that voice sound like? Whiny, romantic, wild, egotistic, a top note of royal petulance underpinned with a faint grasp of reality? Exactly. A typical Windsor male, in other words.

‘I was a bachelor, alone and tired,’ he moaned. It sounds like the opening line of a Johnny Cash song, but he was describing how he felt before he met Wallis Simpson. ‘To live without love would have been intolerable,’ he said, after he had fallen for her.

To his adviser, Walter Monckton, he set out his plans following the death of his father, King George V, in 1936. They are shocking to this day, because naive Edward really did think he could become King and have the twice-divorced, plucked and powdered Wallis by his side as Queen.

‘I refuse to become a prisoner of the past. I must have a private life of my own,’ he wailed.

Not so fast, your majesty. Private Secretary, Sir Clive Wigram, quickly informed him of the sobering truth of his situation in 1930s Britain. He said: ‘Sir, you are quite mistaken. The King has no private life whatever.’

On hearing this, Edward threw all his toys out of his Silver Cross pram and abdicated instead.

All this is revealed in Once A King by Jane Marguerite Tippett, which throws a fresh perspective on how and why Edward chose to abdicate rather than live without the only woman he ever loved.

And reading the truth about Edward VIII and Mrs Simpson, I’m afraid I am not filled with syrupy admiration for his romantic sacrifice and subsequent elopement, but more struck by his selfishness and utter dereliction of duty. Edward kicked everyone in his family to the kerb, so that he and Wallis could live an aimless and empty life in exile, coddled by luxury but not much else.

Ditto Prince Harry with another American divorcee, nearly a century later. Meanwhile, King Charles and Queen Camilla? Let’s not rake over those still-smouldering coals.

Yet while the Windsor men indulge themselves with their own wants and needs, it is noticeable that the Windsor women have always put duty first. Queen Elizabeth II, of course, rock solid on the throne for 70 years, no further explanation needed there.

Princess Margaret was no saint, but when she had to give up the love of her life because he was divorced, she accepted her fate so as not to upset the monarchy.

Princess Anne is not going to come over all rom-com any time soon, but whatever the right thing is to do, she has always done it.

You can’t always say the same for her brothers, uncles and occasionally wayward nephews.

Indeed, when you think about it, you have to wonder how the Windsor dynasty has managed to stagger on for so long. Certainly it is in spite of these selfish men rather than because of them.

It was Edward VIII who sowed the petulant seed that grew the giant hogweed of entitlement, and down the years his love story has echoes in the tortured relationship of others; in the long-running affair that preceded the marriage of King Charles and Queen Camilla; in the ongoing drama of the Duke and Duchess of Sussex.

History repeats itself over and over, right down to Edward VIII moaning about the Press while blaming everyone else for his own feebleness and limitations.

He was blinded and entranced by a woman in kick pleats from the New World who he believed could rescue him from the misery of privilege and the burden of destiny. Sound familiar?

In one chapter, he even rates Wallis Simpson’s defining characteristics, writing down that she was ‘demanding, strict, inflexible, exacting, chic, must-have-the-best and is easily hurt’.

Ring any bells in Montecito? Any glimmer of recognition or acknowledgement of shared experience from his Mini-Me great-great nephew? Thought not.

But, really, how have the Windsors got this far? To be a successful dynasty there must be strong leadership and a constant supply of family members who are committed to the cause; team players who vow to ensure clan survival above personal needs.

The Habsburgs, Mughal Empire, Hindujas — tick, tick, tick. The Cadogans and the Grosvenors, all the Lords of Bath; look upon them and wonder.

They have all managed to hang on to their fortunes, their vast estates and their power down the centuries with barely a blip; woe betide anyone who comes between a Cadogan and a month’s rent, or a Grosvenor and an inch of their 300 acres of prime Belgravia and Mayfair, a family asset since the 17th century.

Clogs to clogs in three generations, as the saying goes. The miracle is the Windsors have survived at all, for it always seems that the achievements of strong Windsor women will for ever be frittered away by weak Windsor men.

The rot started with Edward, but where will it end?

Chic Jen makes our news gals look frumpy 

Many of us are still devoted to The Morning Show (Apple+) despite that disastrous second series that we don’t talk about — and a cringe-worthy new cameo from Jon Hamm, blundering about as Elon Musk-alike mogul Paul Marks. 

So far he’s had a sex scene with anchor Alex Levy (Jennifer Aniston) and flown into outer space, all without shaving his hideous Fred Flintstone stubble. Still, I am soothed as always by Alex’s dreamy, monochrome luxe work wear; Saint Laurent trouser suits, Celine jackets and even a Khaite jumpsuit. This week the ultra-groomed goddess wore a beige front pocket knit midi-dress by Jil Sander, a masterpiece in minimalism for around £1,500.

I have to be honest. Our home-grown newsreader gals look like frumps in comparison.

Preachy play is a must-miss 

Another oh-aren’t-men-awful play opens in the West End, only to meet with oh-what-awful-rubbish reviews. There were high hopes for Lyonesse, starring Kristin Scott Thomas and Lily James, but not even their combined star power seems enough to save the production. ‘Demonising of the entire male sex gives it the whiff of a lecture,’ read one review. ‘A curiously laboured and lacklustre affair,’ wrote our very own Patrick Marmion.

Written by Penelope Skinner, Lyonesse tells the tale of an ageing star (Kristin) who wants a media executive (Lily) to tell the world how she escaped an abusive partner — but can her truth survive the process?

Frankly, who cares? Haven’t we had enough morality sermons about #MeToo and coercive control, especially when set in a world where all the men are either irredeemably wicked or dead — or both?

‘My vagina is broken,’ says Lily at one point, in a performance that reviewers have noted is ‘irritatingly whiny’ from someone who is ‘not a natural stage actress’. Do you think it sounds like a must-miss? Me, too.

Dame Mary Berry says we should all relax this Christmas. We should do ourselves a favour and buy ready-rolled puff pastry and use other culinary shortcuts such as panko breadcrumbs and shop-bought jars of mincemeat to ease the pain. 

Mary, I’ve got news for you. We’ve all been doing that for years. In other reheated advice, the dame of festive delights suggests roasting your potatoes the day before and warming them up in the oven on Christmas Day. Sometimes, you know, she goes too far.

In other dame news, Dame Maggie Smith is the unlikely star of the new Loewe campaign, photographed wrapped up in some sort of shaggy yeti coat and clutching their darling Puzzle handbag.

So chic! So covetable! It’s the only advert I’ve even seen that actually makes me want to go out and buy the damn bag, but that was before I discovered the price — £2,400.

Who are all these fabulously rich women who can afford all these fabulously expensive things? That’s what puzzles me.

One minority police seem loath to protect

You could be the most pro-Palestinian supporter in the world. You could convince yourself to loathe Israel and everything it stands for. But even if this were your position, it still takes a special kind of person to find satisfaction in the slaughter and abuse of innocent families, the elderly, women and children.

Those affluent, carefree, smug young people in London and elsewhere who have been ripping down the posters of kidnapped Jewish children not only make my heart sore, they make me fear for the future of humanity. You can argue about whether or not the Israeli response to the Hamas attacks is justified, you can take a side if you must — but why tear down pictures of women and children who have been abducted by Hamas terrorists? And even smirk as you take a delight in doing so?

There is abundant footage of these easily recognisable people on social media websites. Have any of them been arrested yet?

If it is a hate crime to misgender a transwoman or racially abuse a Muslim, surely this must count as a transgression, too? Not just because their pleasure in this mindless, petty desecration is awful to behold.

And now this weekend in London there is to be another ‘March for Palestine’.

Fair enough that people want to express their support, but it is just not acceptable to do so in hostile ways.

There are barely 300,000 Jewish people in the UK, compared to four million Muslims.

Yet this is one minority the police seem loath to protect.

After the fall-out from Cakegate, Catherine Tyldesley has put her luxury house on the market — removal firms beware!

The former Coronation Street actress might try to tempt you with mentions on her social media in exchange for free transport to her new abode, you know what she’s like.

Her four-bed house is on a quiet tree-lined cul-de-sac in the Greater Manchester area. It has a 36 ft open-plan kitchen, every modern luxury and is on the market for £875,000.

That could buy Catherine a lot of cupcakes, if she were inclined to pay for them in the first place.