It strikes me we’re looking down the wrong end of the telescope at the latest Royal scandal.
Public wrath is rightly focused on dodgy BBC reporter Martin Bashir over his lies to score that bombshell interview with Princess Di.
And his Beeb bosses are properly criticised for a 25-year failure to spot and expose his dirty tricks.
But one name is strangely absent from the charge sheet: the Prince of Wales.
His marital misconduct was the root cause of all this misery, yet he chooses not to speak.
His silence is a deafening self-rebuke. Bashir is paraded as the pantomime villain, but Charles is the original culprit.
When it was clear their marriage was heading for the rocks, Diana challenged her husband over his affair with the then Camilla Parker-Bowles. And, she says, he replied: “Do you seriously expect me to be the first Prince of Wales in history not to have a mistress?” Priceless. He then admitted adultery in a staged TV interview with pal Jonathan Dimbleby, presumably to get his regal retaliation in first.
Naturally, Princess Di was determined to get her revenge. If it hadn’t been Panorama, it would have been some other TV show. That message-in-a-photo from the Taj Mahal signalled her intention.
Earl Spencer’s claim that the Panorama interview led directly to her death is a delusionary fallacy. Her French driver is chiefly to blame for the fatal accident in Paris, with guilt also attached to the chasing paparazzi.
It was all a long time ago.
The real danger now is that the Tories, led by bird-brain Priti Patel, the Home Secretary, will seek to exert political control over the BBC.
By all means bash Bashir, but don’t let the Tories use this debacle to destroy the independence of the nation’s most reliable news broadcaster.
I didn’t see much of the Eurovision Song Contest, and I heard even less.
But the experience confirmed my view that the competition no longer has anything to do with music.
It’s an international shoutfest staged in a 1960s strobe-lit psychedelic nightmare. None of the songs have lyrics that will ever be sung again.
The stage antics are absurdly overdone – don’t try them at home – and the shed footage was meaningless. It worked better with the mute button firmly pressed.
If we’re not expelled for our “nul point” performance, the UK should plead urgent business elsewhere next year. Or, better, start our own international song contest – the Britannia – open only to singers who can sing, with songs people understand.
Plus a ban on flashing lights and Star Wars costumes. And a panel of Mirror readers to choose the winner. ‘Owsat?
Boris is to marry Carrie in July next year when little Wilfred is old enough to be a page boy. I wish the happy couple well, but I do advise the latest Mrs Johnson to invest in a chastity jockstrap for her wandering-eyes husband. Beau Bozza has an indifferent record in the matter of, er, fidelity. How long will this one last?
Sniffer dogs can identify Covid victims from their unwashed socks. Brilliant. Now could they train Fido to find the rogue odd socks that go missing every wash day?