A Little Knowledge in All the Wrong Hands

But before we get to that — poor Meghan, Duchess of Sussex! Right?

That’s all. I always start my day with that simple novena to the difficulty of being a beige-colored quasi-Royal in a world where pink-and-white full-bore Royals are no longer respected, even coming as they do from a long, distinguished line of Mountbatten-Windsor-Bowes-Lyon cannibals and pedophiles.

It’s a great, big baby buffet across the pond, with Buckingham Palace, so I gather, serving up hearty boy-babies alongside the kippers and kidneys for heart-attack-on-a-plate breaking of the fast, and delicate girl-babies (at least, the ones that Hillary rejected as too scrawny to top a pizza) piped with vanilla Royal Icing — we all thought a Royal Icing was when Liz refused to take your hand at your investiture as CBE, but we stand corrected — and propped up, ready for post-mortem photography, in a bed of cucumber sarnies and Chelsea buns — we all thought Chelsea buns was the reason Charles married Di, but etc. etc. — for High Tea.

Served in the Red Death room, down the corridor, third door to the right, mate. Just listen up for the chants of “Hail Satan, Hello Alice!” You can’t miss it!

Like you, I believe absolutely everything I’m told or read in the QAnon papers, and then some. Just so I…