Civilian Harry Misses His Old Life and Regrets Listening to Meghan Markle

We do have regrets in life, and it is testament to the enduring qualities of Harry, stripped of his medals in the army, and his royal status, all because he had a moment of momentary madness, and followed this woman who controlled him so well to the un-royal city of Los Angeles, where the soulless grid streets all lead to nowhere in particular.

“I used to hang around thousand-year-old palaces steeped in history, have proper English butlers, shoot pheasants, and in the evenings have anything including any young filly delivered to my quarters to be pumped with vigour. Now I am a civilian underling to an ageing humourless Z list actress who is obsessed by herself, and orders me around as if I am one of nana’s Corgis, there are no palaces here in the soulless cocaine fuelled environs of Los Angeles, just bland Starbucks and fake plastic people with their faces stretched behind their ears, and their pig’s anus resembling trout lips, puckered to the point of absurdity,” the woeful former royal lamented to his friends.

The former prince yearns for the fresh breeze of the rolling green hills of England, the quaint pubs, the polo, his friends and brother and the cheers of Twickenham, as well as the considered sarcastic comments of royal discourse, which is non-existent to the clueless politically correct Yanks.

Meghan whose chief expertise is in fellatio, due to her apprenticeship over many years of shitty low-end showbiz jobs, has only this skill to her name, but over time, even her intricate oral technique will not be able to keep the former prince from feeling home sick. The hundreds of men she has serviced in her time can contest to her fellating skills, but her vicious narcissistic personality counteracts this very attribute.

One friend revealed: “Harry is so bored of it all. He is now surrounded by American socialists, who can be even more intoxicating than the British sort, mainly because of their extreme champagne swilling PC hypocrisy and constant sappy victimhood. The Hollywood set are about as shallow and vapid as a Death Island episode. One mention of shooting a grouse, and they all huddle in the corner crying like babies and pointing fingers.”