BLOOD, so the saying goes, is thicker than water. Unless you’re Prince Harry.
In which case it’s marginally thicker than water but definitely thinner than paper — specifically the £112million he got in paper bills after selling his soul to Netflix.
Now Jemima Khan, who wasn’t in any way, shape or form related to Princess Diana, has just shown the whining multi-millionaire the true meaning of loyalty.
The documentary maker has pulled out of Netflix show The Crown over concerns about its lack of compassion towards her late friend.
(That she’d more-than-acrimoniously split from the show’s writer Peter Morgan is, obvs, but a coincidence.)
The fact remains Jemima put principles ahead of a payday. She and Diana were close.
They spoke freq-uently, presumably — like all good friends — and shared secrets. They worked and toured Pakistan together.
While we don’t know how much the award-winning producer would have received for her involvement with the fifth series of the hit drama, her decision to forgo a co-writing credit means, presumably, she won’t now receive a penny.
Sure, she may not need the money. And the four months she worked on the script was hardly going down a mine, or detonating IEDs — it was easy cash.
But the Crown has already won seven Oscars and countless Emmys, Golden Globes, Baftas, Screenwriters’ Guild awards, etc, etc.
Come January, awards season, she’d have been a shoo-in for a gong- share — and all the kudos that comes with it.
Her CV would have been completed. Enough to make most of us ignore all pricklings of conscience. But not Jemima.
Her statement read: “When I realised that particular storylines would not necessarily be told as respectfully or compassionately as I had hoped, I requested that all my contributions be removed from the series, and I declined a cred it.”
Which makes rent-a-gob Harry’s decision to stay mute about his Netflix paymasters all the more marked.
True meaning of loyalty
The new season of The Crown, to be released in 12 months’ time, focuses on the Princess of Wales’s relationship with her sons William and Harry before her tragic Parisian car crash in 1997.
For one so set on getting his “truth” out there, for one so chippy, Harry is bizarrely benign about an, at times, grotesquely distorted show which millions — especially Americans — take as gospel.
This is a bloke who’s gone to extreme lengths to silence the Press.
He refuses to engage with British tabloids, partly in retribution for the mistruths he believes were circulated about his mother before he had a voice.
Now Harry most definitely has a voice — one absolutely none of us can avoid.
He’s gone on Oprah, the planet’s biggest talk show, to air it, and has screamed his two-A-leveled thoughts from the rooftops. (James Corden’s double-decker bus.)
He’s opined on global podcasts, spoken at award shows, lectured our children. And in case we haven’t heard enough of his dulcet tones, now he’s taking to print to share his voice.
Writing an autobiography or, rather, “an intimate memoir” which will be “wholly accurate and truthful”.
Perhaps the only version of his voice we haven’t heard is one strummed with guitar, in lyrical form.
But with an £18million Spotify deal, presumably a duet with Adele is incoming.
In other words — albeit not Harry’s — the ONLY time Harry remains blessedly mute is when it comes to Netflix.
But hey, money talks.
Oh no, I've ad my fill
OBVIOUSLY people with far too much time on their hands are getting in a tiz about the new John Lewis Christmas advert.
Apparently the decision to feature a largely all-black family, and a “white, non-binary alien”, is in some way offensive.
Or “woke toxicity”.
By that token, John Lewis’s decision to use a ginger tabby cat as the family pet is also, surely, discriminatory against tortoiseshells? Disgusting.
lCOMPLACENCY is killing the double-jabbed.
Yes, the Government should have done more to reinforce the urgency of a third jab.
And yes, they should have made the initial roll-out far easier. At one stage booking a tertiary jab was like a scene from Hunger Games: Every octogenarian for themself.
But now it’s up to us to be diligent. To roll up our sleeves, get the job done.
No one relishes a needle being shoved in them. But, like a visit to the dentist or unloading the dishwasher, it has to be done.
I avoid mates wining
ARRIVING early or/and empty-handed, texting during the main course, forgetting the host’s name and/or necking soup straight from the bowl: All causes of social death during a dinner party.
Now there’s another etiquette no-no for the writers of Debrett’s to get their teeth into . . . Gary Barlow’s plonk.
The Take That man has just launched his own range of wines.
Perfectly palatable, I’m sure, but I can only imagine the ill- contained horror on my mates’ faces should I proudly present them with a bottle of Barlow Barolo or some nice Gary Chablis.
I think they’d rather me arrive empty-handed.
Time to see the light
OVERWEIGHT children are being used as models to reflect “modern Britain”.
A plus-sized company, Sturdy Kids, sells specially made clothes for the big-boned and reckons it gives portly youngsters more confidence.
Which is all very noble. But the stark reality is that we should not revel in becoming a nation of porkers.
Instead, the onus should really be on parents to get their offspring moving.
To give them an apple instead of a Mars bar when they are bored or feel hungry, to educate them.
Not to go online and order them trousers with an elasticated waistband.
Of course, some children are naturally bigger, and shouldn’t be punished for it.
But as a country we are now getting ever-fatter – and being a burden on the already overworked NHS.
We shouldn’t be making light of obesity – we should be getting lighter.
THE curse of Strictly Come Dancing has struck again. This time, the performers’ perma-tans are at risk after cosmetic producers reported shortages of a key ingredient used in fake tans.
As someone whose full name is Clementine – as in the little, round, pock-marked orange – and who has been entirely monogamous to Dove Summer Glow for the past 15 years, I share the panic.
During one particularly terrible telly performance commentating on even more terrible D-list celebrities, a meme of me superimposed on to a can of Tango briefly circulated on Twitter.
As Strictly host Claudia Winkleman once said: “When I’m orange I feel better.”
Could lose it all in a flash, Sarah
UNTIL last week, Sarah Jayne Dunn’s body of work was not something I was overly familiar with.
But now the lingerie-loving Hollyoaks actress has been axed for having an OnlyFans account – and she’s not impressed.
Still, the 120 grand she made from the resulting headlines must have eased the pain.
Now, the 18-plus website, which allows users to put up raunchy content and pictures in return for a fee, has come under scrutiny.
Some argue it is empowering women, while others claim it is a gateway site to full-on porn.
As someone who’s never wished to see Kerry Katona twiddle a nipple of a cold Tuesday night, the appeal of this site has altogether bypassed me.
Another prominent user, a rapper called Fat Joe – whose oeuvre, again, I’m shamefully unfamiliar with – holds similar allure.
But if someone is comfortable to put this stuff out there, and titillate the masses, then fine. Their bodies, their lives.
They just shouldn’t come running for help when things start to sag, or deflate, and the monies dry up.
They also shouldn’t be surprised when they can’t find decent, respectable 9-to-5 work ever again.
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