This is nothing to do with my penis not working properly anymore. By Jeremy Clarkson

MY hatred of Meghan that’s cellular and keeps me awake at night has no connection, I can categorically state, with my non-functioning penis. 

No, the burning rage I feel at the Duchess of Sussex, using poor Harry like a puppet when he should be out there sowing the world with Royal bastards, is unrelated to my flaccid, unresponsive member.

You could hit it with a hammer and it wouldn’t even twitch. Even chemically-assisted erections, the only kind I have now, leave me red-faced on the sofa with a pounding head. Entirely separately, I fantasise about pelting a beautiful, naked woman with dung.

She deserves it for what she did to that poor man she’s married and tricked into thinking he’s happy. He’ll learn when his one true source of joy is limp and useless like a vestigal tail.

Cars don’t do it anymore either. I can feel the throb of a Ferrari Testarossa’s flat-12 but nothing, where I used to be hard as tungsten. I worry over the years I’ve given myself the penile equivalent of vibration white finger. Anyway Meghan.

She’s lying, we all know that. All men my age, who dare not speak of the tragedy in their trousers, agree. She’s a duplicitious Californian gold-digger who’s ripped away the pride of young British manhood.

It’s made our proud nation look impotent and useless and she needs to pay. She needs to writhe naked in the flames of hell forever. As punishment, not titilation. I’m well past that.

So, in summary, it’s stopped working. All the farms and tractors and cars and Amazon money and middle-aged fans clapping me at car shows and it’s stopped working. It’s Meghan’s fault. She must be made to pay.

Jeremy Clarkson writes every Saturday for The Sun, because of course he does.

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Five ideal gifts for scowling, ungrateful teenagers

SHOPPING for your miserable adolescent who last removed their headphones in March? These five presents won’t even make a dent in their resentment: 


Clothing your child is a basic hallmark of being a competent parent, and your child knows that and equates not being bought £180 Air Jordans as abuse. If you dare choose a style or brand on your own, they will point out you have basically invited bullies to humiliate and scar them forever.


Having the newest, flashiest mobile is a human right, so don’t expect your hormone-crazed progeny to react with anything but a scowl when you offer them the latest iPhone 18 or whatever number it’s on now. Do you wait to Christmas to upgrade your phone? Exactly, sneers your 16-year-old.


Surely providing your child with cold hard cash that they can spend on whatever they damn well please should raise a smile? Surely even the vile whelp that hisses when you open their bedroom curtains responds to bribes? No. It prompts a rant about capitalism and the injustice of economic outcomes as the money is pocketed.


Apparently his mate Dylan’s parents let him drink as much as he likes because they trust him, so buying your teenager a nice bottle of wine is an insult to your outraged daughter who cannot believe you still act like she’s a baby, and why don’t you just kill her if you hate her so much?

Your death

Really, the only appropriate Christmas gift for your adolescent is for you to disappear off the face of this earth, leaving behind your house, the dog he begged for but never walks, and a meagre inheritance he’ll blow on weed, festival tickets and takeout coffee. Finally something he actually wants.