The real victim in all this? A sad, lonely Prince. By the Duke of York

JUSTICE has prevailed and thanks to a very large sum of money I have been proven innocent. But it’s easy to forget the real victim in all this: me. 

I stand here a sad, lonely figure, my good name besmirched and deeply out of pocket – money that could have paid for luxury golfing holidays, Swiss chalets and visits from masseuses I need for my tragic sweat gland condition.

The higher you climb, the further you fall. Before these allegations I was a much-loved, respected member of the Royal Family (probably the most-loved). The nation is still eternally grateful for the joy I brought them in 1987’s It’s A Royal Knockout.

Now I’m not even patron of London Metropolitan University, although frankly it’s a relief not to have to visit that dingy remedial pleb-hole. Unlike the English National Ballet. They had some cracking fillies and very well-spoken too.

I didn’t actually do anything as colonel-in-chief of the Royal Irish regiment and all those made-up military roles, but you name me one royal with a proper job. What does Kate do? ‘Occasional hockey-playing stick insect’? Give me a break.

Yes, it takes a proud man to say ‘Life’s not fair, it’s just not bloody fair’. All I did was befriend a rich American financier with a creepy interest in young women, and suddenly it’s from Falklands hero to sex pervert zero.

Perhaps I should be thankful I’ve avoided an ordeal at the hands of the American justice system, but I feel compelled to say this: thanks a f**king lot, Mum. And you, Charles, you pompous arse. The only reason you talk to plants is they can’t get away.

All I can do is celebrate alone as best I can with a bottle or three of Bollinger from the cellar. I’d give Fergie a call, but she’s really looking her age these days.

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Six film and TV franchises that won't stop until long after you're f**king dead

A NEW Lord of the Rings TV show is on the way, with viewers already wondering how much more of their lives these hobbits will steal. These franchises won’t ever stop: 

Lord of the Rings

There was the book, for 50 years, then there were the films, then the extra-long films, then the dragged-out Hobbit trilogy, and now there’s an £800 million TV series packed full of Gandalf and Galadriel barking on about Middle Earth prophecies. Fans are now so steeped in mystical bollocks they might as well have joined the priesthood.


Deep in the mists of the aughts, there was a successful low-budget horror film. Because it made shitloads of money there have now been nine of them, with a timeline more convoluted than the Saxe-Coberg-Gotha family tree. The films will be made forever and they’ll never be scary again.

Hannibal Lecter

Once memorable, forever milked. The sequels and TV show made Lecter more likeable due to familiarity so there’s no way this cash cow won’t be brought back. In three films’ time you’ll be rooting for him to barbecue someone’s genitals in a soy and honey glaze while they’re still alive.

The Terminator 

Limited by the fact that the Terminator only does one thing: go back in time and kill someone. But there’s loads of history and John Connor must have loads of ancestors. Cue CGI Arnie trying to kill Renaissance nobleman Jean De Conneur, or the mudskipper that evolved into the Connor line.

Star Wars

Disney’s intention to strip mine Star Wars is clear. In 2029 you’ll be watching a forgettable Kit Fisto prequel exploring his complex relationship with medical droid FX-7. And there will still be standalone Disney+ series for General Hux, Nute Gunray and Arleil Schous, the wolfman thing in the cantina, to get through. And every individual Jawa.


Fans will pay to see Batman even if you’ve made the character rubbish or deeply unlikeable. So filmakers should bring back the camp Adam West version, complete with ‘BAM!’, ‘BIFF!’, ‘POW!’ text. Especially if Christian Bale was starring in it.