Check the date! Ninth of December. Forever ingrained in my memory, it is Donny’s Birthday. My God, it’s his 65th to be precise! Reality check or what? As for those oblivious to Donny … deprived. Utterly deprived. Not even worthy of an exclamation mark.
Moving on? Hang on … 65?! Donny? Millions of grandchildren. Whatever happened to that teenage heartthrob who saved my parents a fortune on wallpaper? So good-looking. I mean, so good-looking! Janet? The loveliest guy, too … Thing is, I was supposed to marry him. Aged 13 – 1972, Puppy Love, the mustard yellow ‘suit’ – my life was sorted. Until, it wasn’t! I can still remember being on the phone to my mother- the payphones in the foyer of Fraser House, Pollock Halls – in 1978. No mobiles, then. No social media. Communal payphones – and I would go back to them in a heartbeat! I digress … Anyway, she told me that Donny had got married. Aged 20. And …? Fickle or what? I mean, me. I had no idea. My life had moved on, then. Fast forward decades and I would realise that those formative years were the halcyon years and they were with me forever. Obviously! Suffice to say, he remains the nicest guy on the planet but, if he had married me – as I planned – he would have dodged the Botox and the black shirts! Me? I would have dodged the wine and lived a healthier life in the snow-capped mountains of Utah with multiple children and grand-children. Bliss! Size 10 and happy. Big mistake. Huge mistake!
Who mentioned the word ‘fantasist’? Back to reality with a thump. Just an aside here, though, I am having great difficulty focusing on the page! Not a drop of alcohol has passed my lips – yet – but my favourite reading glasses have been fitted with new lenses, apparently to balance my eyes. Don’t ask. However, I am either going blind or my own lenses got lost in the post. Whatever, I shall persevere but, take it from me, life is considerably more difficult when it’s a blur… Brain unaffected, I might add, and, thus, I shall, finally, address the elephant in the room. Well, I was hardly going to ignore the Netflix release of that hideous reality show which has dominated the news for much of the week. Saturday, now, and I haven’t watched it. I can’t! Surprised myself, actually, but the minute I saw the trailers – predictably narcissistic and deluded – I realised that, not only could I not bear to listen to Meghan’s sickly script, but it was a work of contempt. Malevolent Meghan and her pandering puppet. When will it end?
Of course, all week – across the mainstream media – every word, every clip has been dissected by a panel of white – and black. The views of the unfamiliar, picked for their colour, and, guess what, every black person I saw was in support of Meghan. Every black person I saw missed the point. Every black person I saw was blind for, to them, Meghan is not a person; she is a colour! Meghan can do no wrong because she is of mixed race. She is a victim because of it. Nothing to do with the way she has behaved. Irrelevant. The Royal Family is racist. Britain is racist. Black lives matter!
Black Lives Matter. Combined, three of the most divisive and provocative words ever. George Floyd – he, who held a knife to the stomach of a pregnant woman during an armed robbery – deified for the nature of his death. Murdered because he was black! Police brutality because of his colour. Conclusive or not, racism fitted the narrative, sparking an uprising across the world. The dawn of ‘woke’ and victimhood; a new more inclusive world devoid of both merit and responsibility. A world in which white means unjustified privilege and black can do no wrong. The very world in which Meghan Markle – and her puppet/golden goose – can command glutinous wealth, her loathsome behaviour seemingly excused by the colour of her skin.
Thank God for Dan Wootton and GB News in a week of ‘woke’ and sycophancy. His more polite description of Harry and Meghan: ‘Narcissistic egotists who will put money and fame ahead of honesty and family’. While everyone else jumped on the racism bandwagon, collectively, too scared to stand alone, only GB News told the truth: Meghan is a victim of her own making, nothing to do with her black mother. Take her diva behaviour in the run up to the wedding and that surrounding the birth of Archie and his christening; the accusations of bullying and rapid staff turnover; the hypocrisy; the lies; the treatment of her father … All constitute the real reasons for her fall from favour. Nothing to do with racism. Everything to do with the person.
Her mother, Doria, it seems, can do no wrong. Meghan’s only family member at the wedding, she is the only grandparent in the lives of Archie and Lilibet. The erstwhile yoga teacher and social worker now lives a life of luxury, the sole parental influence in the lives of her ‘publicity-shy’ daughter and son-in-law. Way to go! The thing is, though, I have read Tom Bower’s book about Meghan – Revenge – and, therein, I learned the truth about Doria. Far from the doting mother figure, she was largely absent. Sexually promiscuous, she preferred to party and smoke dope rather than look after a family including two step-children. In fact, her contribution to Meghan’s childhood was negligible in comparison to that of Thomas Markle, her father, who was the dependable parent with whom she lived and who paid for her education. It was her father to whom she was close – until he became expendable. Ruthless and ambitious, he was no longer compatible with his daughter’s coveted image. Of no further use to her, he was an embarrassment. He was gone.
I am Meghan Markle. Of mixed race, I take no responsibility for my behaviour. I no longer need to be a decent human being because, courtesy of the Black Lives Matter movement, any criticism of me is racist …
In truth, Meghan Markle’s wrongful claims of victimhood due to the colour of her skin constitute a huge dis-service in the fight against real racism. May she, and those like her, be held to account.
Black Lives Matter. Reverse racism. Identify oneself as a colour and racism will never die.
‘The most potent weapon of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.’
Steven Biko
This is Trish, signing off.
