O God how I hate you all, O God how you bore me, O someone please deliver me. Oh please shut up, oh please get a life, oh please get a job, and opinion columns and lobby-grouping and moral outrage are not jobs. In fact just die. In fact why don't we all die? Really, let's all die. There's no point to us any more. What a boring pissy shithole country and what a wanky boring world full of wanky boring people with too much time on their hands for wanking and boring.

This, this, this is news? Prince Harry dresses as German at FANCY FUCKING DRESS PARTYYYYY, hurrrr, heeee, baaaad. He. Is. Naughtyyyyy. NAUGHTY! Boy. We must rebuke he. We are good people, we are concerned, we mind things, we. Is not allowed! He wear twisty cross, is BAD CROSS, has magic powers to hurt peoples, he is bad boy must grovellllll to us

First Billy Connolly gets bollocked for fulfilling the comedian's function of making light of dark things, now everyone... oh what a fucking bore, there's no point even writing about this, oh someone please point me to a country with no fucking media.

Sense of humour. Sense of humour. Sense of humour. Sense of PERSPECTIVE? Popular here at one time, notably during the war we fought against the people who wore the twisty crosses and meant it, died some time in 1997. Oh what a farty prissy sanctimonious bunch of arseholes we have become. Oh what a bunch of tossers. Oh what a bunch of sad self-important pompous little wankers. Oh what an island of squealing little joyless windbags.

The worst thing, the saddest thing, the most depressing thing about this NON-FUCKING-STORY - actually the worst thing come to think of it is that the poor kid, the poor harmless nice kid, the kid who wants to serve his country and has already spent more time hanging out with the afflicted than 90% of us will in our happily selfish lifetimes, the kid who just wanted to enjoy himself with his mates - the worst thing is that he apologised even once. He. Did. Nothing. Wrong. It. Was. A. Fancy. FUCKINGGGG. Dress. Partyyyy. He. Did. Not. Gas. Any. Fucker. He. Did. Not. Drive. A. Panzer. Through Golders Green. It. Was. Not. A. State. Occasion. He. Did. Not. Goose-step. Up. The. Aisle. At. A. Holocaust. Memorial. Service. And. Piss. On. Rabbi. Lionel. Blue. He. Did. Not. Get Rizlas Out. In Anne Frank's House. He. Did. Not. Have A Shit. On The Cenotaph. He. Did. Not. Sodomise. The. Rotting. Corpse. Of The Unknown Soldier. With Douglas Bader's Legs. He Did Not. Rape Vera Lynn. Using Churchill's Bastard Parrot As A Condom. While Singing The Horst Wessel Song. Or indeed 'Springtime for Hitler' from the West End fucking hit muuuuuusical comedyyyyyyyy some of you may have noticed.

He went to a fancy dress party. As Rommel. The nice one. The cool German. The one who didn't drool much. A private party. Which WE INVADED.

I thought there were privacy laws? I thought there were privacy laws? I thought there were privacy laws? Tell me now if there aren't because if there aren't or that sort of thing is fair game half of us are going to jail for thoughtcrime.

'Someone should have given him advice.' 'Can't believe no-one stopped him.' 'He needs a media handler.' Let me. Let me. Oh please let me. Oh please let me be his PR adviser. Here is my advice to Prince Harry, a simple formula for getting through this: whenever anyone asks you if you're going to make another apology, or go on a pilgrimage to Auschwitz, look them unwaveringly in the eye and say, in loud clear ringing tones, 'KISS MY ROYAL ARSE.'

Just that. Four simple words. The answer to all questions: 'KISS MY ROYAL ARSE.' Make an official statement. Call a press conference. Go on television, all channels. That's what they want, give it to them. There now follows a statement from Prince Harry: 'KISS MY ROYAL WINDSOR ARSE YOU FUCKING HUMOURLESS PEASANTS, ARE YOU KIDDING WITH THIS SHIT YOU PISSY LITTLE DRAMA QUEENS? KINDLY FUCK OFF AT ONCE YOU DISMAL FUCKING PLEBS. That is all.'

Please do that, oh please God let him do that, please let him do that for all of our sanity, please let him do that to end this slow death by boredom.

Please don't let them send him on a pilgrimage of repentance. Pilgrimage. Pilgrimage. Always a pilgrimage. Anyone who wants to be cleansed of stigma always has to drag his arse somewhere. The Church did it. In the McCarthyite period in America, I read, anyone suspect who wanted to work in TV had to make a pilgrimage to receive the blessing of some jumped-up little red-baiting supermarket owner who was a big advertiser with the networks; or of course wear sackcloth and ashes before the committee. Nowadays... well, they sent Ron Atkinson to Africa, and the race relations committee can probably subpoena people... but Jesus, how demeaning, how vile, what a desecration if they turn Auschwitz into a destination of atonement like that.

...But the second or third most depressing thing, if I can believe today's Times, who went out and asked a bunch of 20-year-olds what they thought about it, is that it appears even Harry's contemporaries are a bunch of pious little humorless turds like us PC-ridden old farts. Listen to the shits: 'Idiot...offensive...self-destruct button...flagrant disregard for proper behaviour.' Fuck OFF, you dreary little drips. 'Fleegrent deesregrd fr pripper beheeeeeveur' - at 20!

This is depressing to me because for some time I've been going round telling people that PC is doomed to die because the kids of 20 and thereabouts are post-PC, wonderfully, joyously, instinctively free of correctness and any notion of self-censorship... guilt-free grandchildren of Lenny Bruce, calling each other kikes and niggers and spics and towel-heads, in friendship, in fun, in carefree abuse, not giving a damn about the solemn kids who don't get the joke... able to laugh at anything the way we used to be... just not caring about this unimportant shit of race and creed and who did what foul thing to who in the past, living in the future, in the now, in the laughter... I foresaw a golden age of amity and world brotherhood based on horrendous mutual insult and unrelenting crassness and the reflexive slaughtering of sacred cows...

Yesterday I said to someone, you don't get the Harry thing because it's a generation-gap thing. You're too old and stifled by an artificially-implanted universal sense of guilt to get it. To the young nothing is sacred, and that's alarming but it's healthy and it's sane. Harry gets it. The kids get it. The kids are all right. The world will be all right.

But if the Times sampled fairly, or better than I did, it turns out the little pricks are as full of sententious platitudes as the rest of us, and this shit will go on forever.

...What is this? What is this? This is mass psychosis and hysteria. Let us for Christ's sake get a grip. Two things eight million billion times more deserving of outrage than a fancy fucking dress costume, out of the eight million billion trillion I could think of: kill Jews now, today, in Israel, without wearing an armband with a twisty cross, and Mrs. Blair will 'empathise with your despair'. Say Jews are agents of the devil and Ken Livingstone will share a podium with you and call you an important thinker. And if you... oh, but really, what's the fucking point any more? Let's all just die. We'll all be good when we're dead, no danger of offending anyone, no danger of having fun.

Anyway it could have been worse, he could have worn a Union Jack.

Michael Kelly 14/1/05