'I miss my grandmother. She didn't think I was a dick'

PRINCE William has confided in the tabloid press that he misses his grandmother because unlike his father, brother and Britain, she had a high opinion of him. 

The heir to the throne, who recently pissed off even his Windsor ultras by closing their car park, has admitted he longs for the unconditional love of the late Queen who never told him to pick his arse up and do more engagements.

He continued: “If Grandma were still here, she would not berate me for slacking off like my father does. Words like ‘can you and the clothes horse open a f**king library once in a blue f**king moon’ would never pass her regal lips.

“She would smile, offer me a cup of tea, and ask me how the children were in that special, comforting way she had, covering for not remembering their names. Now that’s gone.

“Instead I have to deal with my father telling me if I don’t sign up for an official tour of Mozambique then he’ll bring bloody Harry back to do it because at least he puts in a shift, which hurts.

“My grandmother did not judge. She understood that for every afternoon working I need at least a fortnight off. She would never have questioned Kate retiring to bed for the rest of the year to recover from making conversation with Trump.”

He added: “Also I’m told missing her makes me relatable. Is it working? No, please don’t speak, it’s offensive. Show of hands.”

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Why I'm proud to represent Britain's snake-oil salesmen, by Nigel Farage

DEAR oh dear. The prime minister has exposed his contempt for Britain’s decent, hardworking snake-oil salesmen. Well, I’m not ashamed to say I’m their champion.

This great country was built on the backs of snake oil and its derivatives. From the Crusades to the glory days of the British Empire, snake-oil merchants have been there, laying a comforting groundwork of deception.

Whether it’s good old-fashioned essence-of-cobra, leeches, ineffective nosegays full of herbs to protect against the Black Death or simply the dishonest men of the C of E, they’re a key part of our cultural heritage.

That’s why I’m enormously proud to represent this much maligned trade, whether by campaigning for Brexit or leading Reform. For too long this nation’s honest frauds, hoodwinkers and shit-stirrers have been politically homeless. No more.

Of course I know I’m peddling bollocks. That’s the point. The art of the trade lies in making blatant fabrications sound convincing, while also offering attractive solutions. It’s the sort of proper graft the prime minister is unfamiliar with.

My slimy character and brash charisma may be unappealing to some disdainful of the hallmarks of a phoney industry dating back to the 19th century. Snobs, I call them. It’s taken years to hone this repellent persona, but the results speak for themselves.

It all comes down to business. Being a shyster isn’t just woven into our nation’s identity, it also rakes in money for the economy. Can you imagine our high streets without CBD oil, micellar water or caffeine shampoos? Of course not.

We are a nation built on fraudulent cure-alls. So if the prime minister wants to tar me with the same brush as liars and swindlers, I say go ahead. You’ve just driven millions of crooks into my openly corrupt arms.