a grimm fairytale prince

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So, picture the scene. Lounging on his back in the New York mansion of his pal, Jeffery Epstein, Randy Andy is receiving a foot massage from a young, well-groomed Russian woman. Other men are in the room receiving a similar service, including international tech author, Evgeny Morozov, who revealed the undisputed spectacle. As the young Russians worked on their clients’ twinkle-toes, Air Miles Andy, a frequent flyer on Epstein’s ‘Lolita Express’, is vociferously lamenting his lot, “In Monaco, Albert works twelve hours a day but when he goes out, he does whatever he wants and nobody cares. If I do it, I’m in big trouble.”

Whaa, whaa, whaa. My heart bleeds.

The Grand Old Duke of York is apparently “appalled by recent reports of Jeffery Epstein’s alleged crimes.” No, really. Which ones exactly, those he is alleged to have committed and can never now be charged with or those that he was actually convicted of and served time in gaol for? As evidenced by the weekend’s TV appearance, it is all, for want of a better word, bullsh*t. Complete bullsh*t. The plain truth is that Prince Andrew continued to cultivate and patronise a friendship with Epstein even after he had pleaded guilty to procuring underage girls for prostitution. Much as it pains me, I get the fact that we have to pay for this man’s lifetime of expensed jollies, but we don’t have to have our intelligence insulted by him.

With such public damnation about to come his way I can think of only one thing that’ll work: a multimillion-pound royal wedding. Or rather, another multimillion pound royal wedding. Where Princess Anne publically didn’t, Prince Andrew most certainly did and no expense was spared for Eugenie’s coupling and, rumour has it, the same is to be expected early next year for Beatrice. Many girls dream of a wedding fit for a princess but only some receive them.

Through both his actions and words, we clearly see a man who applies a double standard to the opposite sex. There is a world for his daughters, and there is another world for the girls who service him, and his friend Jeffery. The Russian masseuse, the runaway on whose bare midriff he has his hand on, the petrified fourteen year old who ran screaming from his friend’s apartment in only her underwear, they are all someone’s loved daughter. Your Royal Highness, you’ve more than played your part in crushing their dreams and for that alone, I hope the public will never forgive you.