GOOD old Harry and Meghan, continuing to deliver the goods as another batch of “their truth” turns out to be complete b*****ks.
Mugging off the Queen by pretending she’d given the royal thumbs-up to pinching her nickname takes some next-level chutzpah.
I’ve lost count of the cobblers they’ve spewed about themselves and all those beastly people who have made their gilded lives so miserable.
The story of their struggle is so full of holes, it makes The Crown look like a documentary.
We must all now be at the point where we no longer believe a word they say.
Yet, somehow, we’re still entertained.
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The halfwit prince and his rictus-grinning mumwife are endlessly fascinating – like two stupid but adorable pets who get trapped in the tumble dryer.
We know they’re idiots. But still we want more.
So, guys, if you’re reading this – and I know you are Harry, My First Dictionary in hand – don’t take this as criticism.
Oh no! We’re actually enjoying your dedication to delusion.
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Free from the strictures of the Royal Family, this is your role now.
God save the pair of you.
King’s honesty over royal seat will help to save men’s lives
HAVING only just scoffed my lunch on Wednesday, I was not expecting to then be thinking about King Charles’ backside.
But so it came to pass as His Maj announced his prostate had become enlarged and he was seeking treatment.
The prostate, of course, is not actually part of the rectum but, as someone who has recently had this walnut-shaped gland probed, I can confirm the bottom is very much involved in its examination.
So our candid King was giving us a lot of intimate detail to conjure with.
Some people no doubt screamed, “TMI”.
Not me. I welcomed this self-intrusion into Charles’ medical history.
We are a nation who mostly — and I exclude the narcissistic hypochondriacs — don’t like to discuss our ailments.
“How are you?”, we ask.
“I’m fine”, we reply on cue.
Yet we’re not “fine” really, are we?
If we were fine there wouldn’t be nearly eight million of us waiting — often years — to be seen by NHS medics.
There wouldn’t be a mental health crisis which saw 5,583 people — mainly men — kill themselves in a single year in 2021.
We wouldn’t have the highest recorded average sick day figure in a decade — 7.8 days per worker.
We’re all crocked. Some more than others, granted.
Many of us simply get on with our lives aware that we have a niggling condition that won’t go away.
We just put up with it. Why make a fuss?
I worry about us — the stoic, unflappable, stiff-upper-lip folk.
We wouldn’t dream of discussing our ailments but, if we did, we might find that it helped.
A problem shared is a problem halved, so the saying goes. It could also be a problem solved.
When the King told us of his trouble this week, searches online about enlarged prostate shot up tenfold.
When someone famous talks about their health issues, we take note. We wonder if that’s what is bothering us too.
Like this column’s regular scribe, Jeremy Clarkson, who recently told of his “100-day cough” fears.
I’ve lost count of the number of people who read that and wondered: “That sounds like what I’ve got.”
But it shouldn’t take a famous person to open our eyes. We could help each other.
If someone has experienced the same issue as you, and overcome it, their advice is invaluable.
And, crucially, this wisdom could help avoid the frustration of trying to get a terrifyingly rare doctor’s appointment only to be given the exact same help.
Can’t sit down without piles flaring up
I’m not saying we should broadcast our every minor ailment to all and sundry.
No one needs a running commentary of a stranger’s physical disposition.
“Would you like fries with that?”, should never be responded to with,
“Well, I’m a bit worried I might have gout”.
It also goes without saying that if you feel seriously ill, then the doctor/A&E is where you should be.
But, among friends, we can be a little more open. Especially men.
Pick any group of blokes over 30 in the pub and they won’t be talking about how they go to the bog three times a night or can’t sit down without their piles flaring up.
That’s just disgusting, isn’t it? No. Really, it’s not.
Men will happily discuss what they did with their penis last night during their latest one-night stand, yet wouldn’t dream of asking if anyone else’s nob is a bit itchy.
And while one disclosure might make your life sound exciting, the other might save it.
Footie antics so foul
KYLE WALKER has a Fifa (sorry, FC24) player rating of 85.
But, as we have now learnt, a playa rating of 100.
It’s a wonder the sexually incontinent Man City right back has enough time to defend his goal when he’s busy shagging the various women in his life.
FIVE kids? Good grief, mate. Rather you than me.
But while he’s obviously been a naughty boy, I struggle to feel much pity for the women who get tangled up with the likes of him.
Most footballers, when not thinking about playing the beautiful game, are thinking about bedding beautiful women (or men, but good luck finding out about that!).
They do this because they are mostly young, athletic, virile manboys with almost unlimited cash.
They want to have fun. And the women who get with them want to have fun too. They know the drill. C’mon!
Yes, some footballers hold down lengthy, healthy relationships.
But look at them – Southgate, Kane – they’re all soooo boring, babe!
The influencers don’t want ’em.
So as long as football continues to lavish obscene sums of money on youngsters who learn about relationships from porn sites and think an orgy is just another sex position, history will carry on repeating itself in all its vulgar glory.
IT’S five stars from me for Saltburn – “the world’s most divisive film”.
I chortled along to the deliciously daft Brideshead Revisited/The Talented Mr Ripley mash-up the other night.
Another sparkling script from Killing Eve writer Emerald Fennell, packed with clever quips.
And the beat-perfect Rosamund Pike has the kind of comic timing that would get a round of applause from Tommy Cooper.
Her Common People gag was one of the best lines I’ve heard in a comedy for donkeys.
It soon became clear why it’s so “divisive”.
You either have a sense of humour and therefore like it. Or you don’t . . . and you won’t.
What a rotten state
AN exciting anniversary looms for me – an entire year on the NHS dentist waiting list.
Woo-hoo! String up the bunting, dish up the jelly (hold the ice cream – ouch!).
My troublesome root canal can apparently only be done by an NHS specialist, so said my dentist in January 2023.
So here I am in a queue that could last anything up to THREE years, according to Health-watch.
NHS dentists, like absolutely anything with the letters NHS in front of it, are on their knees.
They saw 17.5 per cent fewer patients in the two years to June 2023 than the previous two years.
For some, the only option is to go private . . . that is until you see what that will cost.
A root canal is £70.70 on the NHS. At somewhere like Bupa, it is “from” £1,204.
And with NHS waiting lists showing little sign of improving much – just this week it was revealed 100,000 kids have been in hospital with rotten gnashers – you can bet your eye teeth those fees will just continue to skyrocket.
Soon the only people with healthy teeth will work for Bupa.
No wonder DIY dentistry has risen by a whopping 90 per cent.
The Government has now admitted it must do more to ensure everyone can access an NHS dentist and claims it has “begun laying the foundations of change”.
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Well, I hope so. It’s time they showed some, er, teeth and sorted it out.
But I won’t hold my Listerine-laced breath. So in the meantime . . . pass me the pliers!
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Colin Robertson
