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.
