So there it was. Finally. After literally months of eager anticipation. In front of my very eyes. Harry and Meg: the Series!!! Full of venom, hatred, lust, death, violence, accusations, implications, devastations and repercussions of a truly royal nature!!! Except… it wasn’t. I was expecting Reservoir Dogs of the Monarchs and got Love Story goes Limp. I mean, I get how Harry could have deluded himself that the stirrings in his regal loins were ‘love at first sight’, because we all know how that phrase translates directly from the gonads. But for her to feel that too? When ‘their eyes met across a crowded room…’ she would definitely have looked somewhere else. Unless he was wearing a crown; that shifts the whole ‘love’ dynamic.

And that’s half of that entire, exceptionally long episode (I couldn’t handle the second part, not sure I ever will, might just jump to 6 when its released); how in love, in tune, two hearts beating as one, on song, yin and yang and every other clicheed phrase they could get from the Thesaurus. Had me reaching for my bucket.

The other half was slightly more interesting. A touch more revealing.

Harry and his mum.

Because not in an Oedipus way, Harry was and definitely still is, obsessed with his mummy. Her life, her death and the Press wot dunnit. That night in Paris defined Harry completely, possibly his brother too, to a slightly lesser degree (but how would ‘we’ ever know? Like really?), and still does. His hatred for the media runs understandably deep and enduring. Not sure that making the ‘boys’ walk behind the coffin did them any favours either, especially as they had to walk with Di’s brother who’s a tosser. Lord Tosser.

So here’s Harry; fucked up and confused and punching photographers, getting pissed, taking drugs and going wild. Like most other 18 year olds. Who’ve just left Eton. So he goes to Africa to find himself. But instead found loads of Africans. Then he found Meg and… aaaahhhhhhhh, (deep sigh, followed by gag reflex).

But this ‘match’ is barely 15 minutes old. (One sixth of ‘a match; stay with it, FFS), nowhere even close to half time. I’m going back for the penalty shoot-out.

Happy Friday

Your Candle in the Wind. xxxx