Harry and Meghan's Happy Ending.

I’m sick to the back teeth of seeing squidgy references to Harry and Meghan and their upcoming nuptials. (It has to be Harry and Meghan, of course, never Meghan and Harry. Harry’s superior position in the relationship is implicit because he’s male, white, and a member of the British royal bloodline. Meghan is merely the girl from LA who just won the world’s biggest lottery. No contest.)

I could write quite a lot about the different angles here, but I can’t be bothered. What I will say is that I would love to see a headline tomorrow which reads:

HARRY AND MEGHAN TO PART!

‘It was all a joke,’ says the prince.

And then there would be the interviews with Britain’s erstwhile favourite Beautiful Beloveds (who have vowed to remain good friends, as you would expect.)

‘Do you really think I would marry some backstreet floosie from LA?’ remarked the Prince with his typically boyish grin. ‘I mean, California, for heaven’s sake! She doesn’t even come from somewhere of substance in the north east. Do me a favour.’

And Mistress Meghan would counter:

‘You guys surely never thought for one minute that I would ever stoop to sharing my living space with this privileged plonker just because he’s got a palace or two,’ she said, aiming a dismissive thumb in Harry’s direction. ‘Gimme a break, will you?’

And then the no-longer-courting couple would exchange kisses to the cheek, stand for the adulation of the assembled audience, and make bows of well rehearsed equality of depth. And on just this unlikely eventuality I rest my sincerest hopes.