And the Oscar for Best Actress goes to… Meghan Markle

RICHARD LITTLEJOHN: And the Oscar goes to... Meghan Markle 

RICHARD LITTLEJOHN: Yesterday's hastily convened summit at Sandringham was a reminder to everyone, not just Harry and Meghan, exactly who's in charge.

Mail Online

The Queen deserves better than this, as I wrote on Friday, but she certainly hasn’t let it affect her legendary equilibrium.

Yesterday’s hastily convened summit at Sandringham was a reminder to everyone, not just Harry and Meghan, exactly who’s in charge.

Her gaff. Her rules.

Even Philip was told to make himself scarce, for the sake of his own health. The last thing the frail 98-year-old Duke of Edinburgh needed was the prospect of Little Miss Markle laying down the law from Canada.

Her Maj was clearly determined, too, that the crisis was only going to cause minimum disruption to her daily routine.

She insisted that the summit be wound up in time for tea, so she could settle down in front of Pointless with a cup of Earl Grey and a plate of ginger biscuits.

How quintessentially English. As a young woman, the Queen will have grown up with Jack Buchanan’s whimsical 1935 song Everything Stops For Tea, a celebration of our love affair with a nice cuppa.

Curiously, when Long John Baldry recorded his own version of Everything Stops For Tea in 1972, it was co-produced by Elton John and Rod Stewart.

Fast-forward five decades and we now learn that Harry and Meghan decided to tell Elton John about their decision before informing Her Maj. No doubt they felt that was the least they could do after Elton paid for their private jet.

Presumably, they couldn’t get hold of Rod Stewart, who was still sleeping off his 75th birthday celebrations.

This is the world they now inhabit: beholden to a merry-go-round of septuagenarian pop stars, superwoke showbiz riff-raff, snouts-in-the-trough politicians and dubious billionaires. They’re welcome to each other.

Still, whatever you think about the Sussexes’ unilateral declaration of independence, there’s no doubt it has contributed enormously to the gaiety of the nation. Just sit back and enjoy it.

Never having been a monarchist, I rarely take any notice of royal tittle-tattle. But over the weekend, I’ve savoured every cough and spit. The devil, as always, is in the detail.

Frankly, it’s difficult to know where to start. I haven’t stopped laughing for days.

There appears to be no limit to Meghan’s self-absorption and obsession with privacy, when it suits her.

According to one paper, we should have spotted that the couple were intending to do a Captain Oates when they took both their dogs to Canada for their six-week Christmas holiday.

Royal ‘sources’ confided that Meghan wouldn’t have contemplated subjecting her pet beagle and black Labrador to such a gruelling, nine-hour plane journey if she hadn’t been planning an extended stay away from Britain. The beagle is called Guy, and was rescued from a Kentucky swamp before Meghan adopted him. Oh, the sun shines bright on my old Kentucky swamp . . .

But we’re not allowed to know anything about the Labrador. The couple have never released the name of the dog, which they acquired in 2018. We’re not even told whether it is male or female.

What’s the big secret? Has the Lab ticked the box marked ‘no publicity’? Is Meghan worried that if its identity is made public, it will be hounded (so to speak) by the puparazzi?

Is she concerned that every time the Lab goes walkies it will have to wear a baseball cap and sunglasses and be surrounded by burly minders — like Madonna, when she goes jogging. There was also a hilarious report about Harry’s attempts to pass himself off as one of the locals on Vancouver Island.

According to the owner of a home decor store, while shopping for Christmas decorations, the Prince pulled a blue woolly hat down over his eyes and effected a terrible Canadian accent.

On a small island, where everyone knows everyone else, he was doomed to failure, especially as he was accompanied by a close protection officer. He couldn’t have been more conspicuous if he tried.

He might just as well have dressed up as a Mountie and started singing I’m A Lumberjack, I wish I’d been a Princess, just like my dear Mama . . .

The shop’s owner said: ‘I thought there was something familiar about him, even though I could barely see his face.’

Then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, my God, you’re Prince Andrew!’ You couldn’t make it up. And speaking of close protection officers, it was reported that the couple’s taxpayer-funded security detail could be downgraded once they turn their back on royal duties. They won’t be left ‘unguarded’, however, although their protection officers will now carry Tasers instead of shooters.

Thank God, we were worried sick.

Never mind that the Old Bill think nothing of leaving the rest of us unguarded. I’ve been trying to imagine the top-level meeting at the Yard to review the couple’s security arrangements.

+5

As Home Secretary Priti Flamingo says, the idea that Meghan has been forced out of Britain by racism is beyond absurd, writes RICHARD LITTLEJOHN

‘Now listen up. The fifth floor have decreed that security for the Duke and Duchess of Suffolk must be downgraded concomitant to the reduction in their royal commitments. Any suggestions? Yes, Hollis.’

‘Why don’t we swap their protection officers’ guns for Tasers? That should send out the right message.’ ‘Excellent idea. In fact, let ’em make do with truncheons and whistles. And instead of half a dozen Range Rovers, in future they can be accompanied everywhere by a bobby on a bicycle.’

Still, they shouldn’t be in much danger in laid-back Canada, which looks certain to be their destination for the forseeable.

Meghan has announced via ‘friends’ that she won’t live in the U.S. while the evil Donald Trump remains President.

Don’t you just love the arrogance of the woman, presuming to tell 327 million Americans who they are allowed to elect?

Funny how she won’t live in a country run by ‘racist’ Trump, but sucks up to Canadian PM Justin Trudeau, who has been caught out blacking up, not once but several times.

She’s also playing the victim card for all it’s worth — those ‘friends’ again threatening a warts ’n’ all interview with Oprah Winfrey, in which she will smear the Royal Family as racist and sexist, unless she gets the settlement she wants.

As Home Secretary Priti Flamingo says, the idea that Meghan has been forced out of Britain by racism is beyond absurd.

Maybe the makers of The Crown can hire Ms Markle to play herself in a movie version — with Chris Evans as Harry and Al Jolson as Trudeau. Nailed on for a Best Actress Oscar, I’d have thought.

Finally, I loved the story which said that, rather than learning about the couple’s announcement from TV, Her Maj read it first on her iPad.

I couldn’t help smiling. For my mum’s 91st birthday last summer, I bought her a new iPad. She now sits up half the night reading Mail Online. Maybe our 93-year-old Queen does the same.

Meanwhile, I have visions of the situation room at Sandringham being kitted out with one of the giant screens you see in White House war rooms, like the time they took out Osama Bin Laden.

You can just imagine Her Maj sitting there in a bomber jacket with the royal crest on her chest, directing operations, as General Sir Alan Fitztightly informs her: ‘Ma’am, we have a drone in situ over Vancouver Island and have eyeballs on the target. We await your instructions . . .’